The Homecoming
by StonedAsia
Summary: Alternate X-Men 07-12: After the events in Life From Ends, Logan brings back trouble and the students aren't readily prepared for the entailing consequences. Please read and review
1. Read Me

Title: Alternate X-Men: As above – different for each Series Part really, and I like to name the individual chapter parts too.  Jolly, isn't it?

Author: StonedAsia, aka, Rowland Wells.

Disclaimer: Everything I've detailed below is officially the property of Marvel Comics, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby.  Chris Claremont was an inspiration, and so was Jim Lee's artwork.  

I don't own the characters and I'm not making any money from this; I just like to play with them.

Rating: R  Apart from some bad language – don't say fuck or bugger – and some implicit sex and violence, there really isn't too much to worry about.  Maybe later, though, I'll have some drugs and rock and roll too; who knows?

Spoilers: Yes, there is some resemblance to the Ultimate X-Men comic line, but it is slightly different; I only took that comic line for inspiration.  I guess there's also some part of the films and tv series as well; plus a healthy dose of my imagination.

Summary: There's a lot of action, a little slice of romance, some small helpings of fantasy politics, thrills and spills and lots of words.  If you're not into reading, then go away.  No, seriously, go away.

Reviewing: I have spent quite a while writing these works, and even if it comes to no satisfactory fruition, I would still love to know what the X-Men fans think, so please review.  It would be very beneficial, and you'd be doing me a favour.

Authors Notes: A lot of time went into these works, and I'm sure that some people, like me, will appreciate the outcome.  I'm not a very good writer, but I try my best.

Things you should know before we tread virgin territory:

· The original X-Men Xavier hires are: Scott, Jean, Hank, Tessa and Warren

· I hardly ever use their codenames because I feel that detracts from the personality of the aforementioned character.  I realise that some characters just like in the comics appear two-dimensional at first, but as the story deepens, and more additions are made, they will start to gain a third dimension

· The following stories take place in the present day, but the Marvel Universe is only different in that the characters have been altered

More Authors Notes: I love music so much, and although everyone likes something different, the best music for reading this kind of stuff too is usually by:

Autechre, Aphex Twin, Boards of Canada, Underworld, Future Sound of London, Tricky, Massive Attack, Nine Inch Nails, Portishead, Lamb, Squarepusher, Photek, Martin Grech, Orb, DJ Shadow, Bjork, Leftfield, Radiohead and of course, the wonderful Smashing Pumpkins – which, lets face it, goes with anything. 

Even More Authors Notes: I've had some support in writing the following, including: Mum, Dad, Bunny and Allie

Plus my inspirational and often amusing friends who at least bothered to talk about it with me –

Sam, Ed S, Ed F, Hannah, Fro, Ant, Dave R, Dave M, Nial, Rob R, Serkie, Toby, Billy and the ever humorous Dave Y – without your constant barrage of questions I might never have been motivated enough.

You people are all very special.

Thanks for taking an interest, and I might buy you all a little something when I'm rich and famous.


	2. we've got a file on you

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#07

"we've got a file on you"

A worn-out white truck clambered along the deserted roads, in the middle of Nevada.  Dust trails issued from the back while it sped along the cracked tarmac.  Logan was driving in the middle of the Great Basin, unsure of where he intended to go.  So far, the week long excursion had turned up nothing for his efforts, and today was going to be no exception.  The scant number of road signs indicated he was somewhere around the Carson Sink.  All around were grand and beautiful aspects of the neighbouring landscape.  Jagged, rocky hills, part of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and rolling countryside that continued on into the horizon decorated the view.  The sun was sinking slowly into the desert dust, and Logan slowed the truck to a stop, rolled the window down and pulled out a cigarette.  He lit it, and tossed the match into the dirt.  Sucking back, he closed his eyes, and wondered again what he was doing there.  

As soon as they had got back to the Mansion, almost a week ago, Logan had kept to himself for a day.  He packed several things: a change of clothes, a map, shovel, torch, his camping equipment, and some smokes.  He talked to the Professor briefly, utilising Cerebro to inspect his tangled mind.  Logan already new his memory was utterly shredded, with pieces lodged in one place that were relevant to others, and large parts missing all together.  Navigating the guts of his subconscious was much too dangerous to be taken lightly, so the Professor was only ready to go so far, but what was not uncovered was still why his head happened to be so mystified.  Parts linked in with memories, such as the recurring dreams he experienced at night; where his body was being submerged in illuminated water, and scalpels were taken to his frail limbs.  The very existence of the metal bonded to his bones proved to be a handful when he dwelt on it; the six claws that shot out whenever he willed them to.  He knew that somewhere along the line, he had been recruited by certain figures and organisations to carry out sinister work, but why, and when, were still the key factors in his memory's reconstruction.  Perhaps he had been pulled beneath by mysterious figures who had forced him to undergo the procedures, or maybe he was in an accident whilst working for one of the companies – he just couldn't recall.  The dreams, though, were becoming more potent, surfacing in his waking thoughts as well.        

Logan stubbed the butt out in the ashtray, and flicked it out the window.  His weary eyes observed the picturesque sunset with longing intensity.  Smoke drifted past his eyes, and he fully exhaled, puffing it all out the open window.  'Time to go.'  He muttered, and started up the engine.  The truck lurched off into the distance, blowing up more dust in its wake.  

                                                *        *        *

The late afternoon heat of New Orleans in the summer was enough for anyone to want to take a siesta.  It wilted flowers, peeled black paint, and made the tarmac stick.  On the edge of the city, areas still needed to be upgraded and fixed to fit precisely into the twenty-first Century.  Much of the suburbs still resembled the old fifties, run-down heated atmosphere of a mid-west swamp state; buildings with cracked wood, and hot-dog vendors shouting their food across the courts.  Too much of the noise penetrated through open windows, and although he tried to keep the room as cool as possible, Victor Creed had difficulty trying to sleep.  His extra-sharp senses picked up on the bustle and commotion in the streets below more than anyone else.  He shut the blinds carefully, and lay back on the rugged bed in nothing more than torn trousers.  His eyes closed finally, and he managed to block out everything.  Sleep soon embraced his tired body.  

Unfortunately, the door to his apartment was thrust open, disturbing his half-dozed form.  Several black-suited, large men barged into the room, flicking guns out at him.  Victor sprang up from the mattress, scrambling into a corner.  'What the hell do you think you're doing?'  He called.  The men brandished their weapons, and stood fast without saying anything.  He glanced at the window, now shut.  In a lightening quick action, he dived for the glass pane, but two of the men tackled his huge mass, and flung him back into the corner.  'What do ya want?'  He shouted again.  Another man walked between his followers into the room, and wielded a hefty-looking pair of handcuffs.  'I got a feeling you know what we want, kitty, so play nice, and you'll get outta here without a scratch in that lovely fur coat…'  The man approached him, opening up the binders.  Victor hissed loudly, and vaulted backward into the corner.  He supported himself with both hands, and his flailing legs took care of the man.  The two window-stoppers lunged for him, but Victor held his body against the walls, and kicked them both across the length of the room.  He jumped onto the other two, crushing them against the blackened floorboards, and hurled himself through the wooden door.  Running past the splinters, he bounded up the flights of stairs, aiming for the roof top.  'Don't just sit there; get him, ya lazy gits!'  The leader shouted.

The roof access cabin burst open, and Victor leapt across the top, landing on another building.  A pop of blood exploded from his arm, and he faltered as the black-suited men aimed at him with silencers.  He kept quiet, but he knew why they after him.  He was going to get taken home, to be reunited with the family once more.  'I know you don't want this, kitty, but you shouldn't make it any harder than it already is!'  The leader called again.  Only he was up on the roof now, the others having disappeared.  Victor analysed the path, and then made for the final rooftop.  His hairy arm leaked blood down to the dust, staining it a musty orange.  He bolted, and the leader briskly followed, nearly catching up.  The concrete shattered as several more bullets stuck in the bricks.  Victor took a supreme final leap, and careered over the height of the road below, smashing through the glass window on the building opposite.  It split apart, as he rolled through and then down a flight of stairs.  

Picking himself up, Victor was surrounded by the other men all of a sudden.  He punched one of them away, and spun to get the others, but was shot in the forehead instead.  Staggering, he then gave way.  They fastened the handcuffs on his limp wrists, and the leader walked over, hoisting the body onto his shoulders.  'Time to get the Sabretooth back, boys; your jaw looks broken – perhaps get someone to take a look at that, eh?'

                                                *        *        *

Exiting the cinema complex in uptown New York that evening, Hank led Ororo from the doors, past the hordes of adoring fans, there to catch a glimpse of their favourite movie stars at a premiere.  The neon lights of a world first for the new movie were blinding; they glowed brightly above the fans, and all up the side of the cinema complex.  Many people were coming into the building and out of it, reporters and camera crews everywhere.  Amid the bustle, Ororo was trying to get out onto the street, behind all the commotion.  She took him by the hand, and they were out.  The fans flooded into their position, and the two were lucky enough to escape.  People brushed past each of them, still running for a quick peek.  Hank started to feel quite queasy, a little dull in the face, when Ororo checked him.  They walked into the light of a lamppost, away from everything.  'You don't look all that good, Hank – a little green maybe.'  She said, passing a head over his forehead.  'Have you felt like this since you got out of medical a couple of days ago?'

'I think it must be because of that; I seem to have overexerted myself a little.  When's the next bus coming?'  He asked, leaning against the post.  He breathed deep, coming around fully.

'Five minutes.  What did you think of the film in there?'  She said, watching the roads.

'Not very challenging, was it?  Anyway, I didn't really concentrate on it to be honest.'  He winced slightly.  'The pain doesn't affect me regularly anymore, just seems to kick in when I exercise or go too far in one day – gotta have rest.'

'Cheer up, Hanky-babe.  It'll get better, and before you know it, you'll be on the road to recovery.  Besides, _[I don't think you need to exercise].'  She said, audaciously.  Ororo stroked him on the back, and they smiled to each other expressively, just as the bus arrived._

                                                *        *        *

Watching the guards patrolling the corridor below, Remy waited for a gap to appear in their paths.  He flipped open the ceiling grate from inside the vent shafts, thrust his head through, and disabled a camera facing away from him.  He plucked it off the wall, and stashed it behind him in the vent.  The pattering of feet came and went as his sensitive ears picked it up.  Dropping through the entrance, and ran for the nearest door labelled 'Hanger Access'.  He started to sweat, the cold sting of panic creeping up the back of his neck.  'I've got to leave…'  He mumbled, searching out a viable way of getting to the vehicles.  The footsteps sounded a little closer, and Remy was forced to start on the electronic lock.  His fingers graced the panel, and it rapidly heated up.  The circuits shuddered rapidly and then melted, gaining him access past the security.  A clunk of cold steel resonated in the next corridor as the door slid shut.  Remy darted toward the corrugated doorframe that revealed the hanger beyond it.  He took care of another camera that looked at him suddenly, its red light flashing.  He knew now that it would only be a matter of time before the guards would be after him.  All the secretive, espionage action in the world couldn't help him now that he had been located.  To Remy, it seemed so casual, and his mistake would cost him once the agents were set loose.  He spied a snowmobile opposite, and looked to the exit.  A huge hunk of reinforced steel was their excuse for a door.  He went over to it, tracing calloused fingertips over the joints.  'Never again.'  He said, charging them up.  The red alert sirens whirred into life overhead, and he stepped away, staring at them.  The door in front exploded, blowing off the hinges.  It took a huge effort to prise the frame off enough for the snowmobile to edge out, but Remy straddled its sleek design once they were free, and started it up.  Agents burst through the door, finally gaining entrance to their hanger.  They dashed to the entrance, wrenching the crushed metal free, and ran after Remy's disappearing form.  

Snow laced trees, rocks and gullies were his scenery while he made his path away from the underground facility.  The snowmobile took several bullets in the back, piercing part of the chassis covering the tank.  A slow stream of petrol leaked over the snow as he shot by, ducking and turning on the vehicle.  Sizzling shots of gunfire echoed over the forest hills as the agents came out after him on their transports.  Remy, dodged a large boulder, and then crossed its shadow to drive through the incoming attackers.  He was having great difficulty maintaining the control over this unpredictable machine, but slowly, his hands got a feel for the motorcycle-like movement.  The end of a large tree branch fluttered past his cheek, scraping the flesh away, and Remy lurched to one side, dodging any further encounters.  The enemy engines roared into range, and more bullets spurted at his advancing form.  The snowmobile bounced over a high ledge, and Remy found himself flying through the air on the back of this awkward beast.  It collided with the ground, and he was thrown forward into a stony bank as it cleared his path, and smashed into a line of trees.  The agents slowed to a stop above him, on the ledge, and several descended.  Remy got to his feet, and picking up a large rock, he charged and then hurled it at them.  One agent's chest burst open, and he crumbled into the melting snow, while the others beat Remy down.  He hit several out the way, and took off up the bank.  His foot was lost though, and he fell, striking his chin bloody on the stones.  

A large, brutish looking man emerged, and took hold of his leg, dragging him onto the ground.  The nametag on his lapels read 'Cmdr Spaskyich'. 'Good on you, boy – only the Wolverine's ever got this far and lived to see another day.  Where did you think you were gonna go?  Nothing but snow round here.'  He stamped down on Remy's knee, cracking it satisfyingly.  'Don't you know we got com chips implanted in every mutant in this facility, or did you think you were exempt from that?  Huh?'

Remy rolled about on the floor, sobbing.  'Funny to think this is the third time we've had to reclaim _our_ property.  Stop_running_away!'  He knocked the mutant around the head several times, emphasising his point with brute force.  He brushed the running blood over Remy's ragged shirt, violently kicked him once more, and then faced his lieutenant.  'Damn French prick - beat him until he can't feel anymore; oh,' he remembered 'and make sure he's got a straight jacket on whenever he's in his cell.  Tie him up to the hooks – yeahhh, you know what I mean.  If his bitch says anything, then break her as well.  Damn muties need to be taught some discipline.'

Spaskyich took one last look at the mutant, and then mounted the other snowmobile, and drove off back.

The agents surrounded Remy's writhing body, arranging to pick him off the floor.  'Merde!'  He screamed, before they hoisted him up.

                                                *        *        *  

'Yeah, I touched the fat one.  I don't think he even realised – must have put it down to the effects of his operation.  Anyway, I got away, and went back to the helicopter.'

'So you've got everything then – you remember much of it already?'

'I remember immediately; no waiting.  I went back to the tower block, but the pilot isn't ready yet, so we'll be a bit late for you.'

'You're soundin' awful despondent for my liking, girlie – make sure you don't take that tone with me in person.  Ever.'

'I've got all the information about the Mansion, sir – the layout, who's there, where they sleep, the defences, what kind of toilet paper they're using – everything.'

'Damn straight, you slinky little cow.  Don't screw with me, or I'll make sure you regret it.'

'Do you want me to get anything else for you sir?  So you don't break my legs?'

'I don't want anything else – and I ain't making any promises on that, either.  By the way, we found your boyfriend trying to leave without you.  Were you close?'

'God, what have you done with Remy?'

'Come back and you can see – _just try not to mess me around.  We're watching all the time and you can't take a piss without me knowing 'bout it.  Seeya later.'_

'Is he alright?  Hey, is he alright?  Spaskyich!  Damn you!'

                                                *        *        *

The gun-metal grey walls of the basement reflected Logan's mood.  Dreary and tired, they looked back with equal enthusiasm.  The faint noise of the Professor's motorised chair buzzed down the corridors, and Logan drifted aimlessly toward it.  Lights lined the sides of every passage in the basement, illuminating the path somewhat eerily.  The sterile ambience made him slightly nauseous whenever he was down there, and the vents, sucking out musty air didn't add to make a spacious atmosphere.  He stepped slowly into the war room, leaning against the entrance, while staring as Charles sorted the paper files into every cabinet.  He sighed loudly, grabbing attention, and cruised into the room.  'I didn't find what I was lookin' for.'  He stated, sitting in a chair.  'I guess Weapon X moves almost as well as the agents working for it.'

Charles placed the last of the folders away, and moved his chair around to face him.  'It's late.'  He said.  'Do you want to talk about all this tomorrow?  I'm okay to stay up though, if you are.'

'Don't worry - I'm just peachy, Charles.  As I was sayin' – I must've been out in Sierra Nevada for a week, and not once did I come across anything that resembled a base or outpost.  I can't remember that much; but when I broke out, the place was poking through the earth, and I do recall something like what I saw there; flat, dusty plains, and miles of rocky hills and mountains.  Nice place fo' vacation, but I wasn't interested in that at the time.'  He replied.

'You were out there quite some time, Logan – you must have found traces of information, such as whereabouts of people who worked there, or parts of the structure coming out of the ground.  Didn't you find anything?'

'I'm telling you, Charlie, I searched high an' low.  There ain't nothing left there, if it even ever existed.  Maybe I got the whole concept mixed up.'  He trailed off, biting his nails idly.  There was stillness between them.  'Would you take a look in my head again?  See if you can't find any more pieces of evidence – I need to get this figured out.  I feel like that whole trip was a waste o' time.  I'm getting' angry.'

Charles nodded, and set his chair out the corridor, and to Cerebro.  

The unit was housed on the inside of a large sphere; with steel panels covering the walls.  They held the vital circuitry and technology that enabled the Professor to enhance his telepathic abilities almost a hundred fold.  With such an immense capability, he could potentially lock onto the certain brainwave frequencies of anyone, and therefore manipulate them as he wished from his location.  He needed the extra power to fully investigate Logan's tangled subconscious, but even with the boost, he might not be able to decipher what was actually in there.  Placing the headset, Charles switched the machine on, and let Logan stand behind him.  Cerebro was part of an extended platform that protruded from the entrance to the sphere.  The room misted over, and Logan closed his eyes, unaware of what he might experience with the power of his mind rushing about the two of them.  'I'm ready for anything you've got to show me!'  He called.  

As the mist swirled and parted perpetually, the shaky view of dull, dank walls and ceilings appeared.  People in uniform staggered to and fro, waving arms in front of the view.  They bore black clothes, the logo of Weapon X clearly visible.  Hands came into sight, six silver miniature incisions apparent.  They were his hands, and this was his view of the installation from pieces of his memory.  The vision gave way to another; a badly lit room with no walls, _no freedom, just the endless embrace of lasting darkness ready to suck and pull him in.  A tank of viscous green fluid swayed serenely amid the heavy atmosphere, and the silvery flash of scalpels, bowls and long, thin tubes resonated all around him.  Mumbles and skittering laughter echoed throughout the dream, but as quick as it arrived, the vision dispersed once again.  'I'm trying my best to find the information related to this particular set of events.'  Charles explained, concentrating solely on the established images.  Only a hideous, gurgling vulture laugh was left, stinging their ears.  Representations of people set still among the haziness came into view.  A tatty, ragged man, roughly Logan's age emerged – ten small claws on the tips of his fingers shining bright among the darkness.  He was exhibiting a toothy leer, and wore a dark, musty trench coat.  This icon was prevalent, but next in line every time they appeared was another, burly individual.  Scarred and coarse, he was adorned with a standard black Weapon X uniform.  The final sequence of events Charles could locate was the escape; darting images of rocks, sand and trees – slipping, sliding and falling much of the time.  The entire visualization was fraught with misinterpretation and inaccuracy.  Only Logan's subconscious truly knew of those events, and no amount of insight on Charles's part could ever unearth the deep-rooted horrors lurking in the corners of Logan's mind.  After the sequence of images started to repeat, Charles ended the process, and replaced the headset.  He watched as Logan returned to earth.  'I'm sorry, but I can't make much sense out of _that_.'_

Logan brushed it off, and made for the door.  He was shaken, and needed time to recover.  'What do you want me to say, Charlie?  Ain't nothing nobody can do to make me feel better.  I wake up hearing that laugh sometimes…'  He shivered, barely bothering to hide it.  'Do you know what it's like to be so haunted by your past that it affects you as a person, even after all these many years?  I get changed each time my mind has one of its little revelations.'

'We're all torn apart by our demons at some point in our lives, Logan; it's just that you can't seem to get your head around _why_ you are.'  He replied, trying to comfort.

'I was taken against my will, man – I was ripped from where I was, and shot full of all this shit, and then they made me into even more of a goddamn freak!  I'm not like the other kids here, I can't remember anything!  Anything!'

'You have to get along with it just the same as everyone else, Logan.'  He assured him, starting to loose his patience.  It was too late in the evening, and they both were not thinking clearly. 

'Magneto was right, we are damaged goods…'  He muttered angrily.

'What the hell do you want me to do about it – huh?'  Charles shouted, a sudden rush of irritation welling from inside of him.  Talk of the passion with which Magneto had asserted himself in their past was destructive to his beliefs, not to mention his ego.  Somehow, it had sparked off an intrinsic revulsion at the blinding certainty that stayed with Charles all his life.  'I'm trying to help you, why do you push me away so easily?'

'I don't know!'  Logan yelled, confused.  He stared the Professor in the eyes unfalteringly. 

'You're a lost cause – I try to tell you where to look – I risk my health delving into your head, when my own is packed full of things to think about… God, if you're confused about whom you are, and you want to find out, do it on your own time, but while you work here, teaching the kids, then you live by how I run things!  I was generous to you before – most of the time, I disregard a person's history, and judge them by whom they are now, but you took that leniency for granted!  If you're not happy with what I do here, then go back to killing people for money, whatever – I'm not interested anymore!'  Charles brushed past him, and out the door.  The room seemed a lot smaller without his presence.  

Logan contained his rage until the Professor had gone, and then burst out in a loud cry.  He slumped back against Cerebro's computers, and fell into reverie.  'Jesus, I need to get this crap outta my mind now…'

                                                *        *        *

Warren stood over his bed, packing several large suitcases with clothes and essentials for his trip.  He had already placed everything he needed in the biggest of the cases, and was now putting the smaller possessions into another one.  It was late in the afternoon, right before the dinner was usually served, but Warren had had his earlier, and maintained that if he was going to get to the airport on time, then the only way was to miss dinner with the others.  He was acting as an emissary for registered mutants in the United States to discuss the recent incidents that occurred in London, due to mutant terrorism only a week earlier.  He was going there alone, and without any known mutant affiliation, so the Xavier Institute would never come up.  Because Canary Wharf had been bombed when a mutant terrorist action meeting was scheduled, there had been much controversy amid the damaged city, but finally a summit was being held to examine the remaining problem.  Warren was an ambassador for his people, and due to the injury to his left wing, it made perfect sense that he leave the team until he could perform again.  He had been the one to raise the issue, and Charles had reluctantly agreed, afraid of losing students, but understanding that Warren had influence among the politics and finances of the world.  His family name was synonymous with wealth and power in America, and hopefully he would be able to swing that freedom among the politicians in England. 

His wing ached regularly, the muscle still torn and burnt, but Warren was using physical therapy to get it back into shape.  There would still be time until the feathers grew back fully, if at all.  He might have to get artificial replacements.  A knock sounded at his door.  'Hey man, getting ready to leave?'  Hank said.  He held a beer bottle, almost empty, in one hand.

'Yeah – just finishing packing.  I've called a cab and it should get here in five minutes or so.'  He noticed the bottle in his hand.  'Are you good enough to start with those again?'

Hank laughed, and picked up one of the suitcases with relative ease.  'Sure am, though Tessa says I have to go light on my feet, otherwise I might pull something.  The surgery has left me with a new view on life too, I think.'

Warren chuckled lightly.  'Like what?'  He held onto the suitcases, and pointed to the final one.  'Do you mind?'

'I came out of medical thinking that I was going to die, but because of everyone's efforts, I made a miraculous recovery – I reckon it's time to start living a little more dangerously, and stop being so reserved all of the time; at least that's the plan.'

They padded down the large staircase, and into the lobby.

'How more dangerous do you want to be, Hank?  You're already part of a "hands-on" mutant activist group – you got crushed by a falling building, then helped to protect the President from being assassinated.'  Warren replied, hearing the horn blast of the cab outside their grounds.  

'I had my eye on a girl here even before I went one-on-one with shanty town's city hall – plus I think she likes me too.'  He said with assurance.

'Ororo?  I suppose it could happen…'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence – anyway, it's just an idea.  I'm still the same old me, 'cept for this blue hair on my head.'

'You sure are, my friend.  Anyway, there's the taxi outside, so I better get a move-on.  Take care of yourself, and I'll be back before you know it.'  Warren stated, taking Hank by the shoulders.  'Go easy on everyone.'

He walked out the large glass door, and down the stony path.  The warm air was still breezy, and though he had spent a lot of the day outside, it was beautiful to feel it once more.  Hank leaned out and shouted after him.  'Don't worry about us – even in our state, we got everything under control!'


	3. undertow

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#08

"undertow"

For the first time in several days, Bobby Drake was opening his door to the rest of the Mansion once more.  Descending into his miserable funk, he had done nothing to contribute to the innocent and upbeat demeanour that he normally displayed.  He had been disturbed ever since their confrontation with the troops in Croatia, where everything spiralled into chaos.  Scott had been shot in front of him, even though the jacket he was wearing caught the bullet, Bobby was put off emulating their courage.  The skirmish on the Whitehouse's front lawn hadn't added to his shaken attitude either; he received a rather vicious jolt to the system from a misguided lightening strike.  The situation had resolved itself, but the damage was done, and he felt claustrophobic toward the world.  The others tried to cheer him up, but for a time, he shoved them out the way; he erected a shell around himself.  

Luckily, a hiatus was upon the students, and since being back, they hadn't come across any lethal situations involving voracious Middle-Eastern militants or giant mutant-burning China dolls; and now, he was free once more.  Bobby left the teenage odour emanating from his musty room, having opened the windows, and came downstairs into the kitchen.  He saw Ororo at the table, munching idly from a box of crackers.  She stared into space, distantly, but brightened as he sat next to her.  'What up, sunshine?'  She said.  Bobby found Ororo fascinating.  She was always two things at the same time – an innocent, irresponsible girl just out of her teenage years, timid and tentative; but yet held a motherly aspect over all of these parts.  She had an intuitive characteristic that prevailed in certain situations, and with Charles sure that she should be an important role-model for the others when older, Ororo was destined to stay with the X-Men.  She had protected Bobby when they were trapped under gunfire in Pula, and now he felt a rather strong attachment toward her.  He watched her pitch into the crackers, and she regarded his observation, giggling slightly.  'What's up – how come you decided to leave your dominion?  Had enough of the smell of your own sweat?'  She laughed.  'Want a cracker?'

He picked one out, and looked into her brown eyes.  He cast his gaze over her smooth, dark skin, showing in patches – her long wavy locks of silvery white hair showered over bare shoulders, and a few stray strands danced over the grin she wore on her perfect face.  'Bobby – you awake?'  

'Yeah.  I'm just thinking about everything again; it goes round in my head sometimes, and looking at you reminds me of that bit in Pula, when you held me close.'  

Her face displayed a more sombre appearance now, and she placed a hand across his cheek.  It reddened to the touch.  'I saw you there… alone.'  She said, speaking gravely.  'You needed someone, and not because they were out to kill us, but because it was too much for a kid to handle.  I was watching over you, so that's why.  I did what I did, because I had to.'  She retracted, and stood up, putting the box away.  'I would do it again.'  There was a slight pause between them as they stared, and she altered the mood, perking up.  'What are you doing for the rest of the day?'

Bobby ignored her question, and tried to step carefully around his.  'You think I'm still a kid?'

She didn't know how to respond, and if she did, then it was going to be delicately.  'In your case, I believe something was lost from you that defined a child; the way they understand and react.  You are as much a man as anyone else here, Bobby – believe that.'

'Do _you_ see me as one?'  He asked hesitantly.

She turned her back on him quickly, but stopped at the door.  She expected him to say that, and perhaps it was not the best thing for her to do, if she stayed with him in the conversation.  'I should go for my lesson.'  

Once she was gone, he grabbed the box out of the cupboard, and swiped it onto the floor.  Picking the closed packet up, he relented, and threw the rest of it in the bin.  If only she had eyes for him; if those eyes could only see past his youth.  Bobby sat himself back down, and groaned loudly.  

                                                *        *        *

Brightening as she left Bobby behind, Ororo cruised out into the garden.  She was bewildered at his behaviour, but having encountered similar reactions toward her from past friends, she knew only too well that he was smitten and jealous.  She held the ideal that she should either talk it out with him, or leave it alone for a few days.  Of course he was a beautiful person, full of life and energy, but he was also a young boy, entering the world at a shaky angle.  Right now, she didn't want to stir him up.  Right now, she had her mind set on another – someone who she would gladly pay back the attention.  

Tracing the path of the colourful gardens, Ororo went behind them to the line of trees adorning a high brick wall.  Underneath the branches, where the sunlight trickled through the shady ambience, Hank sat hunched and cross-legged, holding a clipboard in one hand, and a mug in the other.  'Time for your mathematics lesson, Ms. Munroe.'  He stated, almost grinning.  Two deck chairs were placed half in shade, with a small table romantically in between.  He picked a vacuum flask off the table and filled her glass with some clear Japanese tea.  'Did you bring all of the appropriate stationary?'  He asked, watching the tea fill to the brim.  A smirk plastered itself on his face, and Ororo shifted her weight.  She motioned to him with a single, long finger.  'Come into the sun and maybe you can show me how to sharpen a pencil properly.'  She stared at him, coyly.  'You get a good grip around the head, yes?  Then apply pressure, slowly forcing it in…'

Hank eyed her suspiciously.  'Alright, that's enough.  How about we get down to business – your math lesson?'

'Oh it's stopped…'  She sighed, standing her ground in the mid-afternoon sunlight.  'I thought you might prolong our pleasure.'  

He looked her up and down, getting hot under the collar, and tried to shake it off.  Hank told himself he wasn't really experiencing this, but it wasn't working very well.  'Are you serious, Ororo?  No-one put you up to this?'

She looked at him quizzically.  'Why would you say that, Hank?  What are you thinking?'

He shied away from her gaze, staring into the grass.  'You know – it's just… dating the fat guy an' all.  I just didn't think you saw me like that.'

'Jesus, man, lighten up – I can help you get your groove on, and besides, maybe I like the larger guy.  Plus,' she bent over and tapped his forehead lightly 'you've got the brains to go with the whole package.'

'So… you don't want a math lesson.'  He said, looking into her dark eyes.

'Nope.'  She tilted his chin up slightly, and still bent over, kissed him.

From beyond the ornamental gardens and next to the Mansion patio, Bobby flipped his skateboard over the low brick wall and ground over it.  His face cracked into a smile as he pulled off another tricky move.

                                                *        *        *

At night, the Mansion was rarely buzzing; most of the students preferring to concentrate on their own matters, rather than hold a communal gathering each sundown.  Taking this evening as no exception, Logan wandered down to the kitchen to get himself some water.  He had spent the time watching a battered television set in his bedroom, drinking slowly.  He tried his best to avoid Jean and Scott, who didn't hold him in the highest of their regards, and stuck to his own thing a lot of the time.  He couldn't hold it against either of them, even if Slim was not his favourite person.  Although he didn't consider it a betrayal of her trust exactly, Logan _had_ violated Jean's feelings, considering she detested him to begin with.  He had ruthlessly seduced her in front of Scott, and then summoned the courage to murder the man whom had taken him in as a new protégé.  Perhaps it was a decline of his original morals and ideals, but Logan couldn't bring himself to kill Charles when the time came.  He put it down to his age, because, as was evidence by his lined looks and greying hairs, Logan wasn't getting any younger.  Sympathy was not something that most contract killers were required to come to their assignments with, but now he just didn't care.  They had put up a nice homestead for him for free, and all he had to do was tell the others how to murder without being caught.  It was, of course, called "combat", but Logan's stance on the subject of fighting was as non-committal as everything else he spoke about.  Not that he spoke much.  

Charles had come to him earlier, asking him to stay on the grounds and look after the kids whilst he went on a small trip to find another addition to their collective.  Grudgingly accepting even after their arguments, Charles left in the newly refurbished Blackbird with his peace of mind.  Logan took to the task in his own way, posting a note on the front door telling them all to stay in.  He then went up into his room and got slowly drunk.  The cooler by his bedside was finished, so his came down to find Bobby still in the kitchen.  He washed his face in the sink, and then poured a glass from the filter.  'It's a bit late to be eating from the ice-cream box, eh?'  He said, sitting opposite.  'You could at least use a spoon, kid.'

Without looking up, Bobby placed the box down.  'Don't call me a kid; I'm as old as what I do here.'

'That don't make no sense… I saw you skateboarding in the afternoon; and if that's true, then I guess I'm bein' an adolescent tonight – staying in my room.'

Bobby murmured sarcastically, and pushed the box away from him.  'I don't want this stuff anymore.'  He rested his head down on the table, forlornly.

'What's eating you?'

'I feel fine… maybe it's the draught.'  Bobby replied.  Logan rose and closed the window, sticking his glass on the window sill.  He sat back down, and scratched himself, boorishly.  'What a night, huh?'  He said, raising his eyebrows sardonically.  Sensing the situation, he got up.

Bobby spoke out as he was just about to leave.  'Logan – have you ever been in love?'  He fidgeted awkwardly, and placed the ice-cream box back in the fridge.

'God, why d'ya wanna know?'  Logan sighed, moving his gaze over to the water on the window sill.  It vibrated slightly, ripples glazing over the surface.

'How old are you?  You had to have been in love a couple of times – do you know when you are?'  Bobby asked.  'Is there a point in a life where people cannot fall in love?  I mean, does it only happen after a certain age, or can it happen any time?'

Logan focussed on the water in the glass more intently, then tried to listen for any loud music or activity in the floors above which could account for it.  'What?  Why?  Look - slow down a minute…'  He mumbled, trying to block out Bobby's distracting enquiries.  

'Is it best to tell someone that you like them, or would that be a mistake if you hardly know them at all?'  Bobby asked.

His ears pricked up for the sound of footsteps, and his addled mind raced as paranoia started to set in.  'Jesus, kid, hang on!'  Logan exclaimed.  'Keep quiet for a second.'  The rippling water slowly subsided, and he took a few strong sniffs of the air.  An unusual scent perforated his keen senses, one that didn't seem familiar.  It was hardly present at all, just a tiny trace, becoming almost imperceptibly stronger as the source came closer.  Logan barely had time to react, before their table split in two, and he threw Bobby to the floor.  A line of bullets thudded into the walls overhead, and the shuffle of scurrying feet pattered from behind.  'Keep your head down!'  Logan screamed wildly.  He jumped to his feet, and faced a stranger covered in black military gear.  The man's face was obscured with a large set of goggles, but he knocked Logan clean out of the way, cocked his gun quickly, and fired on Bobby's defenceless form.  The young student was paralysed with fear, and he emitted a small groan of misery before the bullets made contact.

                                                *        *        *

The cool night air was disturbed by the turbulence issuing from the flock of helicopters flying over Salem Center.  Their sophisticated engine designs kept every unit quiet for the particular operations each were usually brought in for.  A full moon shone across the area, illuminating the helicopter's heavy, black shapes as they sped toward the school on the edge of town.  Coming to a stop, still suspended in the cool air, cabin doors slid open, and the agents dropped silently down to the ground.  The black-suited men surrounded the grounds in a matter of seconds, and began climbing the walls delicately.  Several people descended the ropes from the final helicopter, and slowed their movements along the lawn as their agents swarmed the Mansion like parasites.

                                                *        *        *

Flashlights illuminated the empty corridors of the huge Mansion, as every agent danced across the wooden floors, stopping outside the designated rooms.  The pattering of elusive feet echoed subtly, while the men signalled to each other among the darkness.  Several ascended the main stairs, listening for the appropriate commands in a headset.  A few more of them heard the faint sound of conversation from the kitchen, and proceeded through the tight passages until they stood right outside.  

Two agents shone their lights onto the doorframe of a primary target.  A third nodded to everyone in sight, and then turned the handle so slowly.  He peered inside, and switched his infra-red visor on.  The two sleeping bodies stirred slightly, almost aware of the extra presence in the room.  The agent took no time in raising his gun, but was alarmed when the young redhead sat upright.  Jean barely had time to mutter: 'Who's there?' before a small dart sprang into her neck, disabling her nervous system in a matter of seconds.  Another shot into Tessa's sleeping form, sending her off to sleep as well.  The telepaths had been dispatched, so now the rest of the Mansion had to be secured.  

Further down the opposite corridor, another three agents stood outside Scott's room.  They stalked in via the unlocked entrance, but froze as they saw the bathroom light seeping out of a closed door.  Signalling slightly, the main agent crept along the carpet, and listened through the wood.  The faint trickling of water spluttered into life, and the agent burst through.  He hooked arms under Scott's, and then let his partner incapacitate the student.  'Jesus Christ!'  Scott screamed, struggling lamely with the man.  The butt of a rifle struck him cruelly across the spine, and Scott flinched, the red glasses flying off his face.  Totally unprepared for the result, the agents had no time to react as the red bolts from his open eyes sprayed across the bathroom ceiling, blowing part of the roof off the Mansion.  A colossal boom resonated throughout the estate, and the bathroom wall collapsed in on itself in a pile of rubble.  Scott's limp form was hurled backwards, crushing one of the agents as he impacted on the broken doorframe.  

Several more of the military men cascaded into the men's dormitory corridor as Hank bounded out of his door, shocked by the explosion.  His eyes registered complete astonishment before his tired body was laced with more of the tranquilliser darts.  He stumbled lazily against the wall, and fell.  

'Get our men out of there!'  The leader called, in between spurts of spitting gunfire.  He was approaching the kitchen, but their scout had been impaled against the fridge by the Wolverine's vicious claws.  The feral mutant was currently bouncing off the walls toward the rest of the agents.  He pounced on the one in front, snapping his neck violently, and then lurched onto the leader.  Bobby was shouting for help as he ran out of the kitchen in a torrent of slushy ice.  Two agents trying to pin him down were doused in white, and slipped against the walls.  Logan drew his fingers up the Kevlar jacket of the leader, blood dripping pitilessly from the tips.  Bobby ran past; tugging at Logan's reddened shirt tails.  'Leave them for dead – we have to find the others!'

The agent screamed as the claws dug into his chest, striking every vessel and artery available.  He gurgled pathetically, and Logan jumped off his body, following the other student.

After the immediate noise of the cave-in, the agents upstairs surrounded the other rooms, and burst through.  Surveying the contents of one room, they spied a young girl just waking from her slumber.  The darts fired from each barrel, but went straight through her body.  Kitty yelled in horror, and lost control, phasing right the way through the ceiling.  She was deposited in the Professor's leather arm chair, and got to her feet watching the other agents follow her.  The mass of armoured black reached out for her lithe form, but she phased herself once more, and ran into their bodies.  Before they could reach around and grasp her, Kitty had gone into the wall behind, disappearing from sight.  She went all the way back upstairs, searching for the remains of the others, but came to Piotr's room.  She rushed into a scene where the agents burst in the doorway, and he stood alone.  They panicked, and hurriedly fired on him.  Piotr's skin was abruptly covered in a fine metallic sheen, and the numerous bullets ricocheted off him.  Kitty jumped into the foray and through the men once more.  Wasting no time, Piotr grabbed each agent roughly in his huge hands, and launched them both into the far wall.  They tumbled through in a pile of broken bones, and Piotr stepped over, motioning for Kitty to follow.  'If the escape tunnel is open, we can get away using that – come on!'  The burly Russian charged off down the steps with his girl in tow.  

The Mansion was aflame with glittering torch lights, blaring down every corridor as the agents blanketed the entire estate.  The reverberating sounds of gunfire trickled down the hollow passages, and all around the remaining students, chaos was bulging from every open door.  Somewhere along the way, Bobby got separated from Logan's prowling form, but he evaded the troops long enough to get into the centre lobby.  The darkness shrouded his small body, and he was alone once more in all the commotion.  Slowly the noise subsided until only his breathing echoed in the silence.  In time with his, though, was another, perched behind him on the stairs.  Sabretooth's snarling grew in pitch, as the gunfire started up again.  'Hey, hey sunshine…'  He scowled, bearing his line of razor sharp teeth.  He pulled Ororo's beaten body up from behind his tall frame, shoving her in Bobby's face as a trophy.  'Your woman's been taken care of, so now all that's left is you.  Try to make this fun for me, okay?'  He tossed Ororo, barely conscious, into the corner, and stalked his prey in a tight circle.  'Take your best shot, bitch.'  Bobby screamed back; but by the end of the sentence, Sabretooth was on him, scraping jagged nails into the unblemished flesh.  He ripped away the skin along Bobby's rising arm, and took hold of the back of the student's head.  He tugged him into the air by the scruff of his neck, and drew a long line across the belly.  'Maybe I'll spill your guts… before I skin ya!'  He taunted.  Bobby raised his hands once more to manifest his power, but Sabretooth seemed to know, and punched him viciously around the face a couple of times.  Abruptly, a blood-curdling roar thundered down the empty corridor, and a surging flash of cold metal stung into Sabretooth's shoulder.  He screeched mightily, and tossed Bobby away.  'Runt!'  He called, clutching his streaming shoulder, and laughing manically.  'Sorry we haven't kept in touch, 'cos I always love to keep my friends close…'  He tugged at Logan's lightening fast form, plucking him off the floor.  Logan snarled, bearing his fangs, and spat at his tormentor.  'I'm not sorry, you slimy shit!'  He sliced both claws into Sabretooth's furry chest, and propelled himself out of the vice.  'I keep my enemies closer, as you can feel!' 

Bobby picked himself off the ground, running over to Ororo.  He graced his stained fingers over her face, feeling for a pulse quickly.  'Leave now!'  His teammate called.  Bobby witnessed the intensity with which he was acting, and decided to tear himself from Ororo, and exit through the open lobby doors.  'I see you've found a new flock to screw over, Runt – when are they gonna find out you're such a loser?'  Sabretooth shouted, striking out.  Choosing not to respond to his taunts this time, Logan dodged to the side, and struck three of his claws into the hairy, strained neck.  Sabretooth recoiled with sour pain, but in his insurmountable rage, he ignored it, and leapt on Logan's complacent body.  He pinned him down to the carpet, and drew his claws viciously up his opponent's abdomen.  Drawing copious streaks of bloody flesh, Sabretooth ended their brawl when he struck Logan around the head several times with his hardened knuckles.  Finally, when his enemy was foaming at the mouth, Sabretooth let up, and simply scratched 'runt' into Logan's forehead.  'Welcome back.'  He muttered, spitting.

Escaping into the open, Bobby half-expected his freedom, but as his luck would normally show, the helicopters were resting out on their front lawn.  Innumerable guns rose up to his body, but pulling one last move out of his head, Bobby summoned a large barrier of solid ice around his frail body.  The bullets struck and chipped the ice into pieces, and he seemed to have protected himself, until Rogue appeared from the Mansion's entrance behind him.  Unaware of her presence, Bobby was about to wreak havoc on the men below, but Rogue caressed the back of his neck with her bare hand.  Absorbing the memories and powers of her host, but also the pain, she let Bobby slip quietly into unconsciousness, her clutch around his spine remaining.

Now the only perfect survivor of the assault, Piotr helped an exhausted Kitty out of the escape hatch on the side of the Mansion's walls.  'Take my hand – quick.'  He whispered.  She dragged herself out of the hole in the wall, and it slammed shut behind them.  'God, what do we do now – they've got us completely surrounded!'  She exclaimed in horror.  'Everyone else is gone, we've_got_to_leave!'  She tugged insistently on his arm.  They parted the foliage of the bushes behind the grounds, and silently made their way to the garage.  Kitty phased into the wall, and then opened the door from the inside, letting them gain access to the abundant amount of vehicles parked in one space.  They got into Scott's smooth Porsche, and Piotr drove it under the opening space of the garage door.  Purring sensually as it slid out, Piotr stepped on the pedal as they hit the stony path, sending the two teenagers out of the compound.  The agents opposite on the lawn spied the action, and ran to intercept the escaping car.  A torrent of bullets fired across the bow of the speeding car as it headed for the entrance.  'Hold the hell on!'  Piotr howled as a massive structure of ice formed just ahead of the entrance.  His fast hands snapped the handbrake on, but the Porsche was moving too fast to prevent collision.  Rogue ran into view, casting more of the ice in front of the car.  As they impacted on the bank, the bonnet crumpled up and Kitty managed to phase herself just as it hit, sending her through the glass unhurt.  As she hit the ground, though, the fall knocked her blissfully asleep while Piotr's metallic form was effectively crushed within the compressed wreck.  The agents walked over and pulled him out, collecting Kitty to throw on their pile of useless bodies as well.  

Surveying the scene, Sabretooth leered gruesomely at Rogue, which she took correctly to be a smile.  She brushed it off, and stepped into the lead helicopter, a sting of unadulterated hatred and guilt forming in the very bottom of her starved stomach.  The agents gathered themselves, and entered the vehicles once more, carrying their cargo with them.  

                                                *        *        *

The motion on board the helicopter was finally enough to rouse Bobby from his perpetual daze.  He felt awfully sick, the liquid inside gushing from side to side as though he were being tossed about.  Registering his surroundings painfully, a small wire cage separated his body from the other students who were concealed from the cabin as well.  He was at the back of the helicopter's seating area, with several of the grim-faced, black-suited agents in front.  They kept staring straight ahead, oblivious to his waking movements.  A sharp pain suddenly made itself very clear to Bobby's mind, as it bludgeoned his neck.  His head was becoming hazy again, a side-effect from Rogue's long-lasting grip.  Not only had it drained him enough to unconsciousness, but it left a cruel pain that switched from his neck to his shoulders every few seconds.  He rubbed it intensely, focussing on the contents of the cabin.  A narrow passage split the seats into two lots, and at the other end was the pilot's cockpit.  His cage was directly in the middle, and while he looked around to find the others, he saw their cages faced up the side walls.  Not everyone was present, though, and Bobby assumed they must be behind the door leading to the rest of the vehicles inside.  The alternative explanation didn't bare thinking about.  

Trying to shut that prospect out completely, Bobby concentrated on the people who were with him.  To his left, he could see Hank and Kitty, both asleep.  At least that was what he assumed.  Only one of the cages on his right was full, with Ororo in it, badly beaten.  She had been cleaned up though, the streaks of blood and cracked skin having been treated.  Her silvery hair had been trussed back, and a large metal collar surrounded her neck.  It had a solitary flashing light on it, which lit a continuous sequence of green dots.  He placed his fingers through the wire mesh, but could only hold onto the metal as she was slumped against the other side.  Considering the students facing the inside of the cabin, Bobby knew that he had been put up front because he was one of the mutants whom the agents could see as least threatening.  None of the telepaths had been put here, with good reason.  Their mental capacity could be enough to overpower the entire crew with a simple thought, or even produce an electrical malfunction.  Neither Logan, nor Piotr, with his inhuman strength as a metal giant would have been placed here due to the high risk of a breakout.  Bobby found himself wondering what there would be to stop them if they could attempt an escape.  Then he realised the collar surrounding Ororo's neck _might be that defence.  He had one around his own, too; a thick aluminium band with thin material lining for that little bit of comfort.  He tugged pointlessly at the collar, but it didn't appear to have a seam anywhere along the surface.  Useless, he thought.  He might as well have been comatose like his friends.  He couldn't even look out the window._

The interior stank of a rancid chemical smell, one that he recalled from his encounters with the infirmary back at the Mansion.  The agents had clearly been generous in patching each of them up during the flight; it might have even been what woke him.  His jaw ached quite a bit, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had experienced before.  The darkened swelling would reduce eventually; he knew that – it would only take time.  The cold of the seat permeated through his body, and he realised he was still wearing his night-clothes from before, probably because they were still in a shape to be worn, whereas several of the others were in what resembled surgical scrubs.  Bobby was, of course, no stranger to the cold, but it was disorientating because the sensation wasn't catalysed by his abilities.  He checked himself, stroking up the legs, and hips, both arms, and finally his chest.  Nothing was wrong on the outside, save the marks from his scuffle with the giant tramp he'd had earlier.  Although Logan recognised the man from somewhere, Bobby had no idea whom Sabretooth was, or even why he was there with all the black-ops people.  Not that he cared much.  His only concern now was an instinctual one, brought on from their circumstances.        

The seated men were all watching a film, but the sound quality was terrible, and Bobby couldn't even pick up what was being said.  Deciding that he needed to ensure the others were alright, Bobby used his power to lower the temperature of the moisture in the air.  Right on the tip of his index finger, a tiny, thin plume of ice formed, just coating the nail.  He pointed his hand into the wire mesh, extending the plume sufficiently to touch Ororo's face.  He held his hand steady, just concentrating on the task, when a sharp sting vibrated into his neck.  He screeched, the jolt shaking his body, and the ice snapping.  The pain cascaded down and outwards from his head to his toes, enveloping his senses with its cold swiftness.  As quick as it came, it dissipated, leaving him slightly numb and weary.  One of the agents stood, and walked over to the cage, grasping his sidearm for Bobby to see.  'What's the problem, getting testy?'  He asked.  The man was tall and skinny, with a small patch of shaved hair decorating the side of his balding head.  He had a thick strain of South African in his accent, which Bobby was mildly surprised at for a white man.  He spied the string of ice, as it rolled out onto the cabin deck.  The man trampled it under foot, and looked accusingly at the young student.  

'Hey – let me out.'  Bobby stated, flatly.

'I'm afraid I can't do that, Drake.  You're not supposed to be using your powers in here either.  What did you think that neck brace is for?'

'Let me out.'  He repeated, defiantly.

The agent scrutinised him slyly, then turned on his heels.

'Hey!'  Bobby screamed as loud as he could.  'You_do_as_I_say – you kidnapped me, so don't screw us around, or you'll regret it!'

'Not with that leash on, I won't.  You're our little pet for a while, now.'  

Bobby grasped the mesh on Hank's side, shaking it wildly.  'Wake up, dammit!'  He yelled.  

The agent swiftly pointed the loaded sidearm at him, and pressed down on the trigger.  Bobby was struck in the upper chest, and he relaxed somewhat, leering crudely at the man.  The same, warm sensation embraced his senses once more, and he slouched against the cold metal interior of the cage.  He mumbled something, incoherently, but the agent had left him, and Bobby was allowed to pass out in peace.

                                                *        *        *        

When Bobby finally came to, the helicopter was stationary, and his eyes took time to adjust to the bright light shining in the cabin.  It was an unnatural light that shone through him, purged him, while it simply illuminated the agents as they opened the cages.  They herded the students out of the vehicle like cattle, slapping chains on each pair of wrists.  Even before Bobby opened his mouth to speak, the tall, skinny man barked out: 'No talking!', so he said nothing.  His eyes communicated the same level of alarm to the others without the need for speech.  He eyed Ororo carefully, but she kept her head bowed low, shamefully.  He was prodded in the back violently, and prompted to move.  Leading the strange herd down a sole, white corridor, he swiped a look behind him at the others, just to ensure their safety.  The same, whiter-than-white light permeated the others, shrouding them, as each walked from the huge, sterile hangar.  Tessa and Jean were the last to leave, each with a bizarre headset attached that shielded their eyes, presumably to stop them communicating with each other telepathically.  As the troupe proceeded deeper into the compound, the tall skinny man explained the concept of their collars.  'Each neck brace holds the pattern of your unique X Genes, taken from a small pin-prick of blood.  It therefore has been programmed to register when your powers are about to kick in, for whatever reason...'  He explained, leading them down many corridors.  'The particular trait associated with each of you will be acknowledged by the brace, and it will emit a sharp electrical jolt into the back of your neck.'  He chuckled, almost sadistically.  'Although, don't be fooled by the starter, because if _you_ continue to power up, _it will continue to emit the electric pulses in increasing intensity, as you, Mr Drake have already discovered.  The concept is: three strikes and_you_are dead.  The collar is reset every five minutes, though – giving as ample time to react to whatever futile scheme you've got planned.  The same electrode that has burrowed into your spinal column is the same one that can register the chemical reactions swelling in the body to produce a result, so we've got you all under our thumbs while you're wearing those things.'  He stopped outside a large double door, and placed his head into a small retinal scanner at the side.  The lock clicked open silently, and the doors slid apart, revealing a vast control arena.  Data banks, com stations, and huge consoles were illuminated by the same artificial light in the hanger.  Black suited agents paraded in and out of the large room, carrying small data pads.  None of them took notice of the new arrivals.  _

The man continued, beaming an arrogant smile.  'My name is Doctor Kyle Kryles, and I've been your guide so far, but unfortunately for you, the tour ends here.  Welcome; ladies and gentlemen,' he exclaimed, proudly 'to Weapon X.'

                                                *        *        *

'Let me show you to your accommodation,' Dr Kryles said, smiling falsely.  He tugged Bobby by the loose shirt he was wearing, and the students were forced to follow him.  He led them down another long set of corridors, these ones not so effectively lit.  They had left the radiant white light behind, substituting it for a claustrophobic, futuristic, and interior grey.  More and more agents were walking about this area, each holding more elaborate weaponry at their sides.  Their black glasses and fixed stares betrayed nothing of their individuality, if indeed they had any.  Each wore a dark suit, with thin black tie over a starched white shirt.  The asserted their most basic authority through that.  As the group stumbled by, the agents ignored them simply as more food for the machine; more mutants and black-ops assassins to be toyed with until graced by perfection.  

Still leading his fellows, Bobby looked around him as he was dragged into the huge cell-block area.  It was glowing with an ethereal green, coming solely from the coloured laser beams guarding every cell entrance.  There were lines of them, stretching far back on every level in the giant room, making up balconies.  Each floor was accessible only by the steel flights of stairs on either side.  Looking up, Bobby stared into the flow of light that ended at a point where only darkness embraced it.  He sustained a gasp of amazement, trying to rebuke himself afterwards, due to their situation.  His eyes wandered back down, to where they were being marched; the ground floor of the room, where some cells were empty and other's unlit.  The group broke into smaller sections; they were being divided to fit the cells.  Kryles flipped a switch at each entrance, prompting his cattle inside.  He stepped into the first room, with Jean and Tessa, and removed the piece of headgear for them.  'Don't move – this will only hurt if you make it.'  He stated.  Grabbing the collar with both hands behind their backs, he performed a small movement which tugged both off.  None of the others could see what was happening.  The Doctor tapped a small seal of metal on the back of Tessa's neck, speaking to them.  'You listen – this is the only part of the collar that remains.  It still enforces everything I've just told you, plus a little bit extra.  Don't toy with it, or you'll be sorry; it can pick up tampering, and none of you are fast enough to remedy its effects.'  He pointed to a camera in the corner of the room, almost invisible to the two women.  They stared at him blankly, not knowing how to react to this implausible situation.  'That maintains control in this room.'  Kryles said.  'You cannot open the bars, they only operate on the outside, and they too will administer a small electric shock if you touch them, which I sincerely hope you won't.  Don't test us; we know what we're doing.'  He chuckled.  

Walking over to the other groups, he placed them in their cells as well.  Scott and Piotr were next, then Ororo and Kitty, and finally Bobby and Hank.  As they were forced into the tight rooms, fit for only two people each, Bobby gazed out once more at the giant area.  So many people were a part of this; it impressed him, this working machine.  It was a masterpiece of engineering and manipulation.

Once the bars had been activated, Dr Kryles tossed the collars into a small waste disposal unit that popped out the side at the end wall.  He walked back, and stood for them all to see.  At the entrance of the passage, Logan was held with a gun to his head, and trussed up like a chicken.  'I hope you all feel comfortable, because this will be your home for the next few months.  Once you're all fit to graduate, we'll move you up to individual rooms – provided you cooperate with our needs.'  He inserted a key into the lock mechanism, and all the laser bars suddenly shot across the view, keeping the students in.  'Remember,' he said, putting the key back.  'We're watching you via those cameras, analysing your bodies via those chips, and listening to you through a million microphones all at the same time.  We take pride in our work.'  He smiled, signalling to the guards around Logan.  'And by the end of all this, you will too.'

Once out the room, and into the leading corridor, Dr Kryles walked up to Logan, who had a grim sneer plastered on his face.  'You've someone who wants to see you again, Wolverine.  I think you might know him.'

'Who are you, his lapdog?'  Logan smirked.  Without warning, Kryles turned and smashed his hard elbow into Logan's forehead, knocking the mutant over.  The straight-jacket and handcuffs prevented any serious action, but he leapt to his feet furiously, snarling.  'You got a pretty itchy temper there, bub…'  Logan whispered through grated teeth.  His lips drew back, revealing to the Doctor two rows of sharp white fangs.    

Kryles eyed him suspiciously.  'No talking.'  He said, leading the way again.

                                                *        *        *

By the time they were back at the large white control room, Logan was being dragged by the arms, half-insensible.  His sly comments hadn't helped the good Doctor's temper, but he didn't let the sharp pain sway him.  The other agents had disbanded and only two were left with him.  Kryles led them through the sterile room, dodging desks and panels that jutted incongruously out of the flooring.  They bounded up a flight of stairs leading to an upper balcony that looked out over the room.  The Doctor knocked once on the fine, black wooden door of an out-of-the-way office and stood patiently.  'He'll be so glad you're here, my friend.'

'Screw you…'  Logan muttered, his brain still aching.

The Doctor smacked him around the head.

Then the door opened, and Hawk Spaskyich was standing there, cigarette in hand.  He looked distastefully on the pile in front of him, but then brightened, visibly, as recognition flooded over his features.  'Wolverine!'  He exclaimed, joyously.  'Nice to see you back, looking so healthy – come in, please.'  Dismissing Kryles, he shut the door, and seated Logan.  He sat behind his overly large desk, and poured himself a small whisky.  'How's life been treatin' you – having fun with the little league players?  Anything actin' up I should know about?  Hmm?'

Logan sat despondently, while the burly Texan sucked at his malt.  'Same old stubborn bastard, eh?'  Spaskyich's expression changed from one of pleasantness to sourness.  'Haven't changed have you, Wolverine – not even after all the stress you must have got out of your system.  You still a rancid loser.'

'The place may look a little different, but the smell still lingers on – especially 'round you, ya dirty pig.'  Logan spat.  He slumped back into the leather chair.  'I'd piss on you from here if I could.'

Spaskyich smiled falsely.  'You'll be lucky if you ever piss again once you pick a fight with me.'  He stood, finishing his drink.  'And your friends?  I'll make sure they get the treatment you did, Wolverine; only, because it's the new millennium, the treatment's been updated somewhat.  You remember it don't you?  A fine medical procedure…'  Spaskyich mused.

'Think I give a crap 'bout them?  I was recruited to kill their boss anyway.'  Logan retorted bitterly, staring straight ahead into the banks of books and cds, all lined perfectly.

'I know we found you with them, so ya must've been taking a while to do it.  In the old days, you might have been in and out in less than thirty minutes.  Perhaps you've grown impotent.'

'I'm as fast as I ever was, jackass.'  He replied, flinching slightly in the straight jacket.

'We'll see.'  Spaskyich leaned in close, eyeing Logan intently.  'I would make sure you were on top form before I sent you to finish what Magneto wanted done – top form.'

He went over and opened the door.  Kryles and the other two agents picked him up.  'We'll speak more in the morning, but for now, you're all gonna be seen to.  Our Doctor is _in_, Wolverine.'  Spaskyich said, closing his office door behind him.  'More fuel to the fire…'  He reflected, whilst sitting down, alone.   

Kryles led him back into the cellblock, and passed the other students on the way.  The green laser bars separated, and they put Logan in, taking his collar and straight jacket off.  'If you're a good boy, you'll stay without this on.'  Kryles shook the jacket in his hand.  'But if you fool about, and chase your tail, then this leash is going back – and we'll leave you like we have this poor man.'  The Doctor flipped a switch, and the cells opposite the students illuminated, revealing the other occupants of their confined passage.  'Goodbye for now.'  He said, exiting.  Opposite them, under the slight glow of the cells down lighters, Remy was lying crudely on the floor, unmoving, save for a small breath every so often.  A single, thin streak of red coursed down from the side of his mouth, pooling ever so slightly on the floor.  Each breath was a grunt.  His straight jacket was tied tightly around his body, hugging every curve and muscle in a vice-like grip.  In the cell next to his, Rogue sat on the cold floor, head in her hands, as far from the alienating bars as possible.


	4. copenhagen

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#09

"copenhagen"

Xavier's school for gifted youngsters had been attacked in the middle of the night by an unknown force, while the master himself was away.  Only Bobby and Logan had been awake at the time, but it was too late as they finally realised the seriousness of their situation.  All of the students had been captured after the brief scuffle, and taken via helicopter to an unfamiliar location overseas.  Once they woke up, their abductors revealed themselves to be part of the newly resurrected Weapon X programme, designed to produce killing machines from the frail individuals that the X-Men were.  Only Logan had known of its existence up until that point, but it didn't matter anymore.  They were all in this together now, whether they like it or not.

The problem was, of course, that Charles Xavier hadn't been kidnapped and subsequently found himself wondering where his students had disappeared to once he returned.  The Mansion itself had taken quite a beating in whatever events had occurred too; part of the roof was blown away.  The evidence was apparent, but still Charles didn't know where they were, or even what condition they were in.

Charles hadn't returned alone, though, bringing with him the team's latest recruit.  Unfortunately, the first impression counted, and right now Charles's guest wasn't getting a great picture.  He rolled his chair into the office, clearing the tattered scraps of paper off his damaged desk.  He wasn't quite prepared for the number of suggestions and assumptions that invaded his mind, when he ran a smooth finger tip over the mouths of bullet holes along his desk.  He picked the splinters out roughly, rolling one in his hand.  The leather chair opposite him was riddled with holes too, the stuffing spilling out.  It told him everything, yet it told him nothing.  It could have been a misfire, or it could have been a hit, passing through a body and out the other side.  He didn't want to think about it.  Charles did not want to think about his students in trouble – his kids under fire once more.  Instead, he concentrated on the hole in the roof – the broken-down doors and the smashed kitchen.  

Charles was able to pick up on trace telepathic emissions that still hung gently in the air, almost as if detecting a charge of emotion, which swirled and calmed as it began to subside.  He felt it tingle his senses, shiver down his spine; but it was only pieces of a much large structure which could convey the real events to him, nothing substantiated.  He was lost among the wreckage of the house, embraced by its morbid history – one that he couldn't comprehend, because if only he had stayed in, he might have prevented the tragic event.  He could have been able to do something.  _Something_, yes, but deep down, Charles knew that had he been in the same situation, he would have been just as crippled as his students and friends.  He would be crippled from the hips down.

Despite his most angered attitude, Charles rolled his chair out from under the desk, and surveyed the rest of the damage.  He collected himself, mentally, and decided to head for Cerebro, the only possible device that might help him.  His guest walked into the office, having searched the rest of the Mansion for any notes or signs of their departure.  His name was Kurt Wagner, a German-born mutant residing in the slums of what was left of Washington DC.  He would be one of the older students at the school, just turning 29 soon.  Although quite alarming in his dark-blue skinned appearance, Kurt was relatively docile and friendly, but untrusting, owing to his years of discrimination among homes.  He was a freak of nature, especially for a mutant, having the ability to teleport long distances in the blink of an eye, leaving just a trail of vapour.  He also had a long, thin tail which poked out of his back; and despite the animalistic likeness, Kurt was more human than many people Charles had discovered in his lifetime.  He had a natural affinity toward religion – Charles finally found him in an abandoned church, hiding from anyone who would strike out at such a creature.  Masking himself from Kurt's keen senses had been no mean feat, either, because the mutant could effectively be everywhere at once, but finding him, and persuading the man had paid off, and now Kurt had trusted him enough to arrive back at the Mansion.    

Charles rubbed his temples frustrated, and indicated to Kurt.  He had to pause between each response to interpret the German, as Kurt couldn't speak English.  'Did you find anything upstairs, any notes or indications of where they went?'

"Nothing, Professor; I wish I had something to give you, but every room's empty – and without looking in all the drawers, I doubt they had time to leave a message."  He said, shifting his weight awkwardly.  "You said," Kurt continued "that you had a machine with you that might do the job – why not try that, just to be sure?"

In his clenched fist, he grasped a small shell of an explosive device, the only physical remains of the agent's presence, a few nights before.  Although the flames had died down, the wreckage and destruction was still charred black, and Xavier had no hope of reactivating the Cerebro unit in the near future.  Spitefully, the Mansion's assailants had come down into the bowels of the old building and triggered an explosion in the central device of Charles's workings.  Nothing left was salvageable, only broken remains of a once proud construction; his testament to the ever longing peace between humans and mutants.  The thin walkway that extended into the large sphere of the room was just useable, but Charles knew, even before analysing the burnt-out unit, that it was demolished.  What little light that flooded into the room was diminished completely, the bulbs having been shattered by the noise.  Charles turned his chair out of the view, and back a few feet.  A small well of tears formed on the side of his cheek, and he couldn't help himself from weeping in distress.  'This is what I get for having a dream…'  He whimpered.  Kurt stood by, and patted his shoulders.  "I don't know what to say."  He mumbled.

Charles backed out of the basement, and went back to his office.

                                                *        *        *

There was cold, uninviting silence everywhere.  Anyone who was able to was catching up on some well-earned rest from the previous day's excursions into violence, brutality, degradation and humility.  Each of the mutants there was treated equal, except Logan, who was given extra punishment for his lack of appropriate enthusiasm.  They were uniformly presented with squalor, food deprivation, long hours, verbal abuse, beatings and silence.  The only time they could communicate properly was during the precious few hours received in the prisoner mess.  Apart from those periods, most of the students were kept quiet.  There were several minutes available to them also, before the lights were all switched out at night, but after the tremendous exertion from their slave-driving officials, no-one was in the mood for talking.  Although they had only been present for a few days, visible signs of their struggles were already showing.  Weight was coming off, and being replaced partially with toned muscle.  Bruises and cuts were showing, each time deeper than the last.  Every man and boy there had their heads shaved; but the biggest difference between their lives before and now was in the eyes.  A dull, black cavernous stare began to set in, and after a while, they resembled a line of slack zombies, capable of only being told what to do.  These people in charge, these agents, were more than slave-drivers, they were men who could suck the life from a person, and reduce them to mindless animals.  They saw the mutants in their possession as weapons, perfect to carve and mould into the most incredible physical specimens; but only to drive to kill.  Everyone in Weapon X was a killer, whether through experience or teaching.  It was almost like the cell-block was given over to a penal colony.  Only the man in charge of it all was not a warden in any sense of the title.  He was the worst of them; the heaviest, ugliest, most vicious individual that the institute had.  Hawk Spaskyich was a malevolent sociopath, interested in making mutants suffer to entertain his maniacal drive for power.  All of the prisoners saw it – he emanated it, gave it off to his subjects like a plague.  Spaskyich was a dictator of his own underground realm, and he was not about to let it go.  

Having been the most commercial aspect of the Sentinel Contingency, Spaskyich was a people person, and he usually one them over through his charming charisma or fierce temper.  Anyone who was not instantly lured by his thread was taken from the equation entirely.  He was interested solely in catalysing his own developments, and if anyone stood out against him, then that person would probably pay for the mistake with their life.  He was drummed out of the military for causing too much disturbance as a lieutenant – pushing his soldiers to their limits, and over.  After more than seventeen accounts of excessive brutality in standard peace-time conditions, Spaskyich was dishonourably discharged, and left by himself.  He soon became involved through dark links in the army, with black-ops programmes that centred on lethal stealth operations in and out of enemy lines.  Once the conflicts between America and the world were over, though, the operations were brought down to such a level that they were almost non-existent.  Only regular procedures were commissioned legally anymore, and Spaskyich had finally considered himself unavailable for the position of a patriot.  Unfortunately, he was contacted by the Weapon X institution soon after,  who claimed that he might help lead the way for the next generation of urban and subversive warfare through genetic alteration.  While he continued quickly through the ranks of that secretive organisation, he became involved with Steven Lang, and his breed of super-machines, known as Sentinels.  Once the events of Washington DC had confirmed the end of that unique contingency, Spaskyich withdrew from sight, to concentrate on the rising mutant phenomenon.  Only he now, could control who would become involved in specialised black-ops pacification, and through his addled brain, Spaskyich knew he could make a difference to a great many lives once more, finally becoming a true American patriot.  One with all the tolerance and wisdom, to bend an entire race to his wrongful will.

And right now he had sent his faithful lap-dog, Dr Kryles, to awaken his flock for the new day ahead of them.  The end of the isle that led down the length of the cell-block suddenly blurred into life, illuminating the sterile area with grey light.  He flipped a switch at the small control box, disengaging the locks from every cell entrance.  Each of them needed to be turned off individually to let everyone out, but while the bars shone across, no-one was able to escape.  Coughs and splutters issued into the early morning atmosphere, the sleepers among prisoners waking to a rather unpleasant prospect.  A great deal of the cells were empty, but a number did contain Spaskyich's collection so far, and only several had been able to graduate into the agent dorms, fully becoming a Weapon X instrument.  

The former-students rolled off uncomfortable beds, landing on a hard floor with only flimsy blankets to cover their meagrely-clothed, cold bodies.  Kryles opened up the cells on the ground floor only, letting the other occupants higher up, gain little more rest.  The green light bars reduced, and they were motioned to come into the isle.  They looked one another over cautiously.  Tessa's calm exterior betrayed nothing to the rest of them, she watched Kryles scrupulously through wary, tired eyes.  She adjusted the band in her long black hair, and leant with one hand against the cell wall.  Jean's appearance was a lot less promising – she was haggard, and it showed from the bags under her eyes.  Her shoulders were hunched in sadness and defeat, and she looked to Scott sorrowfully as they all stepped out.  He returned her gaze, frowning mournfully at their wretched position.  He too was exhausted, pushed to the very limit of his capabilities, and all without any part of his powers.  Bruises claimed his arms and upper body, the simple proof of their determination with him, and his will was just about at breaking point.  He faced the Doctor wearily, praying for more rest than he knew they couldn't receive.  Hank and Ororo seemed to be the most together of all the students, their bond transcending even these strong walls.  Although Hank was as physically superior as anyone there, the stress didn't show.  He brushed it off, but only as long as he could.  Like Ororo, he knew there would come a time when something would destroy his resolve.  They waited patiently for the impending instant. 

Bobby was not in a good condition either, he was lagging behind everyone else at best, and the attempts he was making to catch up were being frowned upon by their monitor.  The good Doctor did not treat Bobby well after his defiant incident aboard the helicopter.  Bobby was subject to the most stress, and the most pain among all of them.  His determination, again, was the only thing holding his head high at times.  Piotr and Kitty were together as well, this difficult situation bringing each closer to the other.  Unfortunately Kitty was just as frail as Bobby was, and although she was let up on because of her gender, the punishment and exercise, as interchangeable as they were, had taken their toll.  She was lagging too, with the burly Russian only able to compensate using his overbearing guard.  

The last student, having received his welcome return not so well, had been set upon many times by people who remembered him.  Logan had been to the institute before, and as Remy and Rogue knew, the agents despised their property abandoning so freely.  Logan was strong in mind and body, though, so he survived, and never one person alone came for him.  Sabretooth, though, was the exception to this trend.  Each time that skinny tramp came out from under his rock, the two were inseparable.  Thankfully, Logan had his fair share of rough encounters every day, and so was never in the mood to go stalking for trouble.  His collar was a specialised one too; the designers placing into account his uncontrolled healing process, and the fact that his claws were not part of any genetic alteration, but rather appendages in his body that popped each time he willed them to.  Visibly, Logan looked fine because everything would have healed by morning, but underneath, his wrath was welling once more; fury, hatred and rage sparked up as involuntary as sadness and passion.  He had to control it in order for everyone to survive.  He did want them to live through this.

'All right, kids – time for another day at the grindstone.'  Kryles smirked menacingly.  'Hope you can stomach it today, because if_you_can, there is a reward at the end of the line.'

'What's that, then?'  Logan shouted grudgingly.

'Keep your mouth shut.'  Kryles didn't even face him, but addressed the entire group.  'My instructor has requested a bit of a gathering – he wants to meet you all; and if you lot keep on track, and stay focussed, then I can guarantee a little live exercise for your new-found strengths in the field.'  He paused, and wetted his lips automatically.  'Now get to the Prisoner Mess, and clean yourselves up, you all look awful.'  

He marshalled the soldiers, who marched the students reluctantly out of the cell-block and down another corridor.  Once gone, Kryles walked back to medical and sat in his office, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.  He lit up, relaxed momentarily in his easy chair, and smoked.  

                                                *        *        *

'He was right, we do look terrible.  What the hell happened to us?  We've only been here for a couple of days.'  Scott said toying with the slop they were served for a breakfast.  Around the corner table in the Mess hall, a dank and badly seated area with a low ceiling, several of the former students sat with their food dished out on plastic lunch trays.  Although his morale was diminished, Scott was still starving for the morsels of food they were all given.  It looked like it had rolled off the back of one lorry, and then got run over by several more, out to trample dirty food.  He savoured the feeling of anything at the bottom of his stomach, even if it was disgusting in appearance, texture and taste.  'God, let's not complain…'  Jean moaned reluctantly.  'At least we're all still alive after the Mansion was hit.  I can't bear to think what might have happened.'  She ran a blistered hand through her short red hair, and coughed.

'Maybe it would've been better than dying in this dump.'  Scott replied.  He stroked her back as she supported herself on the table.  'It's gonna be alright – we've just got to stick together; don't let them grind us down individually.  As long as we're a group, they can't break our spirit.'  He stopped himself, and then mumbled:  'At least let's make them think that.'

He stared across at Bobby, who was picking at the remains on his plate.  'I know how you feel.'  Scott supported.

'Do you?'  Bobby asked, quickly.  He pushed the plate away from him, but kept his gaze in his lap.  Thinking about his reaction, he stole an apology from within, not wanting to make their problem harder with disruption among friends.  'Sorry – I'm getting caught up in this whole thing.'  He turned his head away, staring at the woman sloshing more food onto lunch trays.  His eyes widened, looking at the food, and his face was a little paler than Scott remembered.  'They just keep picking on me.'  He said, accentuating their actions.  'I'm really in deep, guys.'  Bobby said plaintively, stopping himself from releasing a whimper.  

Taking his tray from the boring woman serving them, Logan walked over, and deposited it by the rest of them.  'Cheer up, kid, at least you're not back here a second time.'  He knocked Bobby on the arm.

'You might be a bit more supportive, Logan – this isn't the time for your sense of humour.'  Scott said, putting a patronising twist in his voice.  He needed cutting down to size, Scott regularly thought.

Bobby cracked a pathetic smile, then whisked his tray off the table, and stumbled off toward the showers.

'Christ, you should get what I'm getting.  Loadsa fun, that is, havin' all these pricks try and hit you at once; just thought you could all do with some morale boosting.'  Logan replied, picking up his tray.  He walked over and sat at the other end of the table, gruffly.  They heard his disgruntled sigh from where they were sitting.

Scott eyed him dubiously, through his ruby glasses.  He ran his hands where his wavy brown hair should have been, but found only a closely shaven scalp.  'What the hell is he doing with us – I have to ask myself again.'

'I don't know anymore – Logan's a creep.  You best not talk to him, Scotty; he likes to get a rise out of you.'  Jean replied.  

'He just came right out of the blue, and teamed up with us.  Did he even think that would look suspicious?  What goes through his head?'

'Seriously,' Jean said, staring at him 'drop it, I don't like him, and I don't want to talk about him either.'

They paused for a second, waiting for the other to say something.  Scott flicked his gaze back to Logan, watching him tussle with the food on his tray.  He looked exhausted, even for him.  'Do you think I look okay with my hair all gone?'  He asked, facing her, and trying to move the conversation away from his rival.  

'I think it makes you look like a hard man – kinda cool.'  She shone a slight smile for the first time since they had arrived.  It was directed at him.

'Thanks.'  He said.

'Don't go getting a big head, though, because I do prefer your long brown locks…'

He stared at her stunning features for a second, but decided not to let anything show.  'How about everyone else – apart from Bobby?  Do you think Tessa's okay as well?  She hasn't said much since we got here.'  He asked, watching the entrance to the showers.  

'What's she got to say?  Everything about this place is wrong.  I keep trying to contact her through my telepathy, but,' she stopped, shaking her head angrily 'I can't get through because of this goddamn thing on the back of my neck.  It's like I've lost one of my senses Scott… though I've tried not using it for a time; this is becoming inhuman… I'm almost crippled.'  She said, her voice cracking slightly.  

'Christ, just hold on, Jean – we're going to survive these slave-drivers.  You and me, huh?'  He held her neck, pulling her face to his eyes.  'As soon as we're out of here, we living like we should, yeah?  Not reserved, none of that crap, I'm talking proper stuff, on the edge and all.  I mean it.  They're not going to drag us down!'

She returned his intense stair passionately.  'I_believe_you.'

'I'll pull you through.'  He promised, turning back to fidget with what was left on his tray.  'I'll pull all of us through.'  Scott paused, letting a hiatus descend on the conversation.

The rest of the students trudged out from the mist of the showers, and sat by the two with their food.  They looked fresh-faced, and clean, but the same sense of defeated weariness still loomed on the inside.  Bobby was still in the cubicles.  The others looked around, taking in the general atmosphere.  A strong depression hung in the Mess like a heavy stench, ever present, and never ceasing; clinging to their minds and bodies always.  Water dripped slowly from wet rattails of hair, and the frown on each face left nothing to the imagination.  A distinct lack of discussion left them equally angry and upset.  It wasn't possible to derive anything pleasing or noble from their current position.  There was no warmth here, no passion, only a cold future ahead of them if something didn't happen soon.  There would come a point when the students would suddenly become so broken apart, that they could never recover.  That was what these officers desired, and that was what Xavier's followers could never concede.   'Boy is it warm in here' Hank muttered derisively 'almost as warm as those bloody showers.  How's the food?  It looks foul.'

'Its rank and I can't force myself to eat another bite.'  Scott complained.  He leaned on the table, coming close to the others.  'Listen guys;' he started supportively 'any of you know what they've got planned for today and tomorrow?  By what we've encountered, I doubt it'll be relieving.'

'Something gruesome, I'll wager.'  Hank stated, digging into the slop on his tray.  He chewed it around slowly, considering the melange of tasteless flavours covering his mouth.  'God, this place is so wrong.'  He said, spitting the mixture into the bin.  'This is supposed to be nutritious?  I could come up with something better than this in the lab at home.'

'I know; they have us fed on gruel, sleeping on wooden-board beds, and sweating for over fourteen hours a day – it's a wonder we have the strength to chew this crap.'  Scott replied.  

Dr Kyle Kryles cruised into the Prisoner Mess hall, glancing at the catering staff quickly.  They nodded, and he checked with the guards, lining the room.  Jean watched him study them, like cattle, grazing off a dusty plain.  'When we first got here, Logan told us the reason for this place – he explained his job here.  I'm guessing we're going to be sent to do some dirty work abroad.'  She paused, chuckling ironically.  'Not that we even know where the hell we are.'

Bobby emerged from the showers, rubbing himself to circulate the heat in his body once more.  He took a seat at the end of the table, as the Doctor approached them.  A guard motioned for the others to stand, clutching his gun a bit firmer.

'All right, kids – here's the bullet.'  He announced, looking them over.

Scott had to steal himself not to punch a hole through his smarmy features.  The man was not the respected officer he thought he was.

'We're going to push you a little bit harder today, see if we can't straighten out the kinks in your manoeuvres.  Sparring and obstacle training will commence in thirty minutes, so make sure you're all washed and filled up on our lovely slop.  Something extra, though, will be coming your way, but only for a selected few.  Commander Spaskyich wants an introduction to the ones he hasn't met,' Kryles's gaze wandered over to Logan temporarily 'so that he can brief you on an introductory mission that's been given the green light.  I want each of you already busy by the time I come back to check.'  They expected him to continue, but he simply ushered them out.  

As they were forced out, Kryles's hand snaked out from behind Hank, and grasped his shoulder with bony, serpentine fingers.  'McCoy,' he said sinisterly, twisting the mutant around 'you're coming with us.'

Hank tugged himself back firmly.  'What the hell for?'  He exclaimed, starting to wish he had been one of the first to leave.  

'I've got something special lined up for you.  Don't you trust me?'

                                                *        *        *

The elegant sweeping actions of Logan's feral body were not lost on Sabretooth as he stood at a distance, watching his rival build himself up.  They were in the sparring room, a large area devoted to many rooms that housed the various combat scenarios that Weapon X trainees were expected to encounter.  Logan was at the very back of the place, where only the enclosed area at the end of the passage made up the walls for the training equipment.  The lights had been dimmed slightly, justifying the sinister mood.  Only the faint rattling of equipment resonated down the passageway, and Sabretooth stood in the shadows, observing his opponent meticulously with his keen eyesight.  The designers of this area had maintained the same aspect of conformist futuristic detail as the rest of the institute, leaving only cold, white hallways and doors that echoed a potent sense of imprisonment for everyone within.  Sabretooth immersed himself deeper in the shadows, and approached cautiously.  He noted the guards with their backs turned at the end of the hall, and knew he was safe from harm so far.  

Logan drew back vigilantly, keeping his eyes shut.  He visualised the boards and brackets, all extending from the posts in the floor.  His mind mapped the area, placing every piece of equipment where he had seen it previously.  Only a dark blanket was his vision now, as black and clear as his consciousness.  He embraced it, seeking the thrill of this blind challenge.  The posts rotated slowly, switching places along the floor at his command.  He moved into the centre space, instinctively knowing his immediate safety among the whirling objects.  He knew no more of the challenge though, and was soon surprised as he sensed the posts enclosing around him.  Growling involuntarily, and flexed, and spun around with his claws extended.  He felt no contact, but free air.  He was struck hard on the shoulder by something unyielding, and twisted, punching the wooden board clean in half.  Immediately, the post crossed over the floor and its rotating head propelled a steel pole against Logan's unprepared jawbone.  It cracked against the side of his face, and he flopped to the floor painfully.  Forcing himself to keep his eyes still shut, he flipped to his feet and sliced the pole off its holding.  He stepped back safely, and took hold of his newfound weapon.  Its length surprised him somewhat, but he held no reservations as to its usefulness.  Grasping firmly, his muscles tensed as he batted the post in half, and then concentrated on visualising the other two, still spinning their dangerous armaments.  

Sabretooth regarded as his enemy dispatched one of the obstacles blind, and then decided to enjoy himself.  He was no stranger to pain, and a fight only doused fuel on his flaming fire.  When the time for action came, which it always did, Victor Creed was insatiable.  It was simply a pity he was now being ordered to perform by his captors.  

Logan was preparing himself mentally once again before the incoming attack hit.  He focussed his flustered anger, channelling the energy to pure brute force.  A blow to the head made him stagger into the oncoming posts, and in the suddenness of it, he found himself thinking it was too early for the post to have made contact.  Perhaps his timing had gone out of synch, but then why was he hit at all – he was standing away from the action.  Right now though, it didn't matter, for the strike had muddled his senses, and now Logan didn't know what was coming.  He extended the six claws from his knuckles, and crouched, bracing his bruised body.  The next hit flattened him, and Logan rolled out of the way knowing it was not from the machine.  A grunt of exertion made him open his eyes, and a painfully familiar face shot into view.  Logan concealed the look of astonishment on his face, and brought his spiked hands up to guard his chest as Sabretooth landed on him.  

The attacker twisted at the last second, just dodging the lethal impalement.  He stepped on the end of the discarded steel pole, flipping it into his grasp.  'Shall we have a little fun again, Runt?  I've been looking for you all this time, and now no-one can stop our dance.'  Sabretooth crawled around him in a circle, brandishing the weapon forcibly.  'As you can see, my healing power's just as good as yours.'  He swung at Logan, but missed, and traced the circle once more.  'Make sure your friends know you're on the way out; once I finish you off, I'm going after them!'  The pole flew over Logan's ducking head once more, but the mutant skewered it with his claws.  He flung it away from Sabretooth's hands, shredding the metal in a grating shriek.  Deciding not to taunt or speak a word, Logan let the action go ahead, calming his body after every high, and adjusting each time he was knocked low.  

Once the pole was out of his reach, Sabretooth pitched into the fight, his hairy arms and legs flailing.  He took hold of Logan's vest, ripping his sharp nails across his opponent's belly.  He pushed him backwards, into the whirling posts that collided and tore at exposed flesh.  Logan screeched, and span out of their range, collecting himself on the other side.  Only the two spinning obstacles separated the two men's voracious wills, and the student found himself motioning for the lanky tramp to approach.  Sabretooth growled, and launched over the poles, landing on Logan's tumbling form.  He pinned him to the floor, spitting on Logan's red face.  'Miss this, did you?  This invasive penetration that I give you each time we meet?  Huh?'  Sabretooth taunted him, drawing his claws over a bleeding forehead.  'My alias for you – it's been taken away' he sympathised falsely 'how about I give you a new one?'  Logan wrenched his arms up, but Sabretooth was pressing down across his entire chest with colossal force.  'Remember how I used to treat you?  Remember the little games we played – you always lost though, Runt – I won every time, 'cos I'm the better man!'  Logan's fury was boiling over; sweat spilled down his straining arms.  Defiance and outright rage pooled from his destructive soul, and he hissed through gritted teeth.  'Get the hell off me!'  Sabretooth cackled maniacally, holding him in place and smacked him flat-handed across the face.  An anger too deep for him to fathom welled up inside, caressing every tendon, every blood vessel and every bone in his aching body.  Logan screamed a blood-curdling roar, and leeched every remaining shred of power from the tiring muscles.  With phenomenal power, he thrust Sabretooth off him, and slashed three claws over his enemy's scrunched features.  Logan dragged himself from the floor, his strength returning.  He picked up the dropped pole, and walked determinedly to his adversary.  The pattering of boots from behind told him that the guards were quickly approaching, so he had to make this quick.  

Sabretooth recoiled from the attack, and stood to watch Logan walking toward him with the weapon.  He cracked his knuckles, awaiting the final contact, unfortunately though, Sabretooth went for the slow dummy from Logan.  The pole lurched to one side, and he raised his claws preparing to crash down on the battered steel; but Logan swung the shredded end towards his shoulder, and the corrugated steel cleaved into the flesh and bone mightily.  Sabretooth howled in anguish, tugging at the stuck metal.  He collapsed satisfyingly on the floor, and Logan stopped to let the guards surround them.  The chief took in their quarrel, chuckling lightly.  He then shouted at the two sprawling men.  'Just because we alter those things on the back of your necks when you're in the sparring rooms, doesn't mean you get to screw each other over with your freak powers!  Get off!'

Logan turned to him preparing to protest, but Sabretooth screamed at them in a gurgling voice.  'He attacked me – take him!'

The guards grabbed their weapons, and Logan stared incredulously at them.  'No…'  He started, backing off.

The chief decided quickly, and then nodded to his men.  'I believe the Sabretooth.'  He said.

Logan extended his claws instinctively for the scuffle, but a hard hit to the head brought him down, and the rest of the guards rallied around to join in.  

                                                *        *        *

Sitting aboard the helicopter once more was not as peaceful an experience as it had been last time for Xavier's former students.  Originally, when they had been brought to Weapon X, they had effectively been knocked unconscious for the entire journey, but now they were kept alive and alert early in the morning.  Of course they had no idea where they were going, for the pilots in the cockpit kept the helicopter height above any distinguishing features in the terrain below.  Only a cold noisy interior and the slow rocking of the vehicle kept the students interested.  So far they had been in the air for two hours or so, with no instruction from their commander, or a clue where they were off to.  Each of them had dressed in a black agent uniform, like the soldiers, but Logan and Hank were gone, having been kept behind at the institution.  Not as many people were on board compared to when they arrived either for the debilitating lethal chips embedded in the spine ensured their good behaviour.  The buffeting motion disturbed some of them slightly, but the general atmosphere was lazy, so they just slept until arrival.  

Jean was pulled out of rest by the motions, knocking her head against the metal wall.  She pushed against the barrier, regaining her posture and readjusting the wiry black headset set in place on her short red hair.  She tapped the microphone away from her mouth, and tried to ignore the device around her head.  Instinctively, she prepared to stretch her open mind out to detect everything around her, but within these past few days, she had learnt to restrain that particular movement.  The small electrical jolts seemed to have built up a slow aversion for her to the telepathy which she would never forgive the people at Weapon X for.  Jean still concentrated on it a lot, but it was a little less frequent in her mind each day, and she was starting to adapt.  It was as if she had been robbed of her most treasured possession, and then taught to detest its very nature.  The entire prospect made her faint when she thought to hard about it, so instead Jean gazed out of the window.  Only a blank sheet of clouds filled the small view, but after a moment or two, Jean believed they were descending through it.  Nothing amazingly detailed appeared through the cloud, but she could see evidence of a large snow laden forest, surrounded by simple grassland.  A dam was in plain sight as well, but it was off in the distance.  She knew this was vague, but none of what she saw would convey anything too complex.  The sunlight wasn't even coursing over the ground, but was simply contained above the everlasting skin of cloud that stretched for miles in all directions.  

She turned her head back, looking to her friends who had also noticed their descent.  Scott was sitting opposite her facing of out his window, and in between them, Tessa, Ororo and Bobby sat, all registering their surroundings.  Behind them, Piotr and Kitty seemed just as bemused.  A tiny spark was felt in the back of her neck, and it made every hair stand on end.  Jean felt the electrical buzz of the headset shiver down her spine as a com signal activated.  Watching the others, she knew they had felt it too, and realised they were being addressed.  A gruff, cigarette-laden Texan accent blurted into life in her ears, and she trembled involuntarily again as the headset worked its magic.  'Wake up, people – this is your Captain speaking.'  The voice sounded.  Jean looked to Scott, raising her eyebrows questioningly.  He shrugged uncomprehendingly, but was cut off by the voice again.  'This is Commander Spaskyich here, and we got these thin devices on the tops of your heads to communicate properly – the signal's a little shaky, but we're tryin' to boost the source.'  The voice paused temporarily, and Jean stroked her blistered fingertips over the tiny piece of metal strapped around her head.  It shuddered, and then so did she.  

'That's about as good as it can get, so y'all bear with me now, even through the interference.'  He swallowed, the lump in his throat resonating quite clearly through the transmission.  'No-one needs to know where you're off to, or even why, but this is quite a test for you young ones to be undertaking for such an early start in the training.  I realised Doctor Kryles said you were going to meet with me, but I decided that was against my interest, so instead, I'm sending you in to do a little work without my director's introduction.'

The helicopter bounced and swayed among the turbulence, but it was nearing the ground quickly.  The finer details zoomed into view, and below, Jean could see the snow glistening with dew drops from the morning.  It sparkled, but started to wobble and shake as the helicopter sent down a tremendous gust of wind.  The tree tops waved, spilling their reservoir of white gold into piles along the ground.

'You're going into an installation chosen by us for some special training, and nobody is topside, so that means you seven are to successfully infiltrate the objective through a designated entrance and then get to the science labs as quickly as possible.  It's all appropriately labelled, and there's no real danger within – but – I want you to make an impression on me, so act like your lives depend on it.'  The voice chuckled sadistically.  'Alarms and doors and so on will all be operational, so make sure y'all stay frosty in there, people.  The agents will show you out, and then leave right away.  Once the objective has been reached and then completed, we'll be back to pick you up.'

The helicopter bumped as it touched down, and the agents on board opened the door showing the students the way out.  The voice continued calmly.  'Remember we're monitoring you all the way, so don't do anything I don't tell you to, because Big Brother has an extremely short fuse.'

The five people were bustled out into the snow with each black-suited agent clutching their gun closely.  The helicopter's rotor blades started up again, beating furiously against the soft ground.  It lifted off and suddenly, they were gone.  Spaskyich's last words echoed in each head present.  'This is a two-way communication system, but don't any of you try an' talk back to me with a sharp tongue.  Once the perimeter is breached, I'll start the instructions.  For now though, if you all want a ride home, you better get on with it.'

The communication ended, and the crackling from interference dispersed.  Jean watched the helicopter disappear, shivering from the cold.  The entire prospect was much too surreal, even for them; seven of Xavier's finest, abandoned in the middle of nowhere among an endless sea of snow.  No sign posts were near, no labels or writing and no indication from the commander.  The only thing in abundance in this godforsaken wilderness was damp cold, crawling up the skin like a spider.  Jean rubbed her arms, trying to get the blood circulating.  She glanced to Scott, wondering what to do.  

'I guess we better do what he says, then.'  He said bemused.

Ororo stepped forward questioningly.  'Don't you think,' she started 'that this might be a good time for us to run?'

'No – I think that from what we've seen in all this time, if he says he's monitoring us, then I'm inclined to believe him.'  Ororo tried to reply, but Scott cut her off authoritatively.  'I really think we should do what he says.'

She groaned exasperatingly.  'How are we supposed to get in this place, we don't even know where the damn entrance is!'

The area was bear, save for the many trees lining the perimeter.  There was only snow and forest.  The dense darkness emanating from there wasn't a place that any of them wished to venture in to.  It was foreboding, but just as formidable as the white blanket covering the ground perfectly below them.  

The crackle of interference sounded in Jean's ears again, reminding her momentarily of the telepathy that was denied to her.  She lodged that thought away, and listened to Spaskyich's voice as it spluttered over the weak signal.  'There should be a large bank of snow just to the right of you.'  He said, the sound snapping and popping in their ears.  'To the right, under the shortest tree; brush the snow away and there'll be a hatch that should open up with a bit of force.  Make it in there, and you're all on the first step to gettin' that flight home.'  It cut out abruptly, and they began to make their way deep into the bowels of the underground installation.                         

                                                *        *        *

Spaskyich led them through the long abandoned hallways of the underground lair, passing by many closed rooms and sealed doors.  The tense students crawled across the cold metal floor, edging toward their unknown objective.  None said a word, but each could hear the lazy vibrating hum rising through the walls from deep within the place.  Darkness loomed in every corner passed, creeping over the sterile walls like a plant waiting to enclose their passage.  The lights flashed intermittently, spraying their luminescence over the seven young bodies.  Spaskyich eventually guided them to one of the better lit areas, requiring them to retrieve the meagre weapons from an unlocked armoury.  Camera's flitted from within the darkness, monitoring their progress all the way.  

Further and further they went, venturing into an unknown.  Spaskyich addressed the students through their headsets.  He indicated to a large, final door at the end of the passageway.  'The labs are in there; go on in and wave your guns around.'  He stated flatly.  'We want the people in there to comply, so make them sweat.'  The lights shone a lot brighter in this part of the underground base; the glow falling against the unyielding double doors.  The students stood poised, awaiting Spaskyich's next instruction.  'I've given Jean a smart card which should allow entry into this part of the complex – use it, and keep on ya damn toes, little ones.'  His voice snapped out of the earphones.  

Jean clutched the card to her chest, and then picked it out of her breast pocket on the blacker-than-black uniform.  She batted away the false epithet from their captor, and looked to the others, watching for their appraisal.  Scott nodded slightly and spoke.  'If I'm not going to lead us, then I'm glad it's you.'  She swiped the smart card across the reader and the double doors opened gently.  

                                                *        *        *

A strike on the back forced Logan further down the corridor to where the agents were taking him.  He was clearly reluctant to be herded into the sparring rooms once more, after the incident with Sabretooth, but the agents had taken steps to ensure the two didn't meet as often as each would prefer.  'Keep moving.'  The gruff sounding agent announced, issuing a small blow to the back of Logan's head.  The feral mutant grunted angrily, and stepped up his pace, coming closer to the rooms.  His scars had healed from the day before, but his rage still bubbled under bruised and battered skin.  Logan turned his head as the shifting sound of the door to Medical alerted his senses.  He raised his nose to the air picking up on a familiar scent.  A nasty, potent mix of fear and sweat greeted him, and it took a time for Logan to process the smell properly.  The guards drove him toward the sparring rooms, but he slowed and strained wantonly against them.  The scent was stronger, but the air conditioning was siphoning it out rapidly.  'Hey, wait a minute.'  He muttered, but they proceeded to push him away.  As Logan was being ferreted off, Hank ambled from out of the Medical doors, doused in a fine sheen of blue tinged hair.  It covered him from head to toe ever so slightly, almost showing like an animal's fur; it glinted perfectly in the glow of the strip lights overhead and disgustingly, it suited his already mutant gait.  Horrified at the transformation, Logan stopped dead in the corridor, scared to witness this horrific metamorphosis.  Hank's build had been altered drastically, appearing inhumanly muscular and bulky while strangely fitting for the genetic modification; the greatest change Logan could pick out though, was in his eyes.  The sense of resistance had been completely discharged, leaving only a heavy cloud of futility that misted over.  Whatever the agents had done to his body, it had finally dissolved his spirited mind; now the man had become nothing more than an altered shell of a once proud and intelligent human being.  Hank was prodded despondently back to the cellblock while Doctor Kryles stood at the entrance, polishing his hands with a damp cloth.  His wiry frame tilted to see Logan, staring at him with intensity great enough to bore a hole right through his frail body.  'Maybe,' he indicated to the guards 'you should take him back to the cellblock too…'

They shoved a very reluctant Logan into the sparring rooms, and turned to the good Doctor.  'The commander says he's to think about what he's done.  We'll make sure he don't smash the place up like last time.'

                                                *        *        *

The students spread outwards once the main laboratory was under their control.  The room was large, with stacks of books and equipment and shelves lining every wall.  At the back, opposite the entrance a huge construct of computer screens, terminals and data banks sat with the scientists forced up against it.  There were two smaller rooms adjoined to the main large one, and Piotr and Kitty managed to round up the working technicians and lab assistants into the main room.  The native installation workers grouped without much of a commotion once they had been disarmed.  A small bank of monitor screens was stuck in the corner of an adjoining room, and the linked cameras had been watching the students as they penetrated the underground network of passages and corridors.  In order to send away any intruders, the scientists had grabbed for the pistols at that monitoring terminal intending to defend themselves, but a quick move from Tessa's mind had dissuaded them.  Spaskyich ordered the workers to be rounded up, and now the students stood ready, awaiting the final instructions that could see them home successfully.  

Piotr and Kitty guarded the double door entrance to the main room with dominating superiority, ensuring no unwanted visitors came looking for their men.  A tense air descended on the room, each person there able to feel it from a mile away.  It hung heavy and silent, like a predator about to strike.  

Jean clutched the butt of the small black pistol strongly; it's furnishing starting to slip in her sweaty palm.  She held it by her side, afraid of having to drive its vicious intent.  Jean looked to the computer monitors, blaring streams of data across their small screens.  It looked as if the people here were concentrating on something quite important, as they all seemed very edgy, stuck in their corner.  She moved over to Scott who was scrutinising a large column in the centre of the room.  It held screens all the way around, and seemed to have several compartments with small specimens in each.  She stared into his red glasses, shaking her head quizzically.  'What do you think you're looking at?'  Spaskyich's voice sounded in her ears suddenly.  Jean placed the microphone receiver to her mouth and replied.  'I don't know – looks like some kind of biological subject material.  What do you want us to do?'  

'Scott' the commander started 'in one of your jacket pockets you should find a small device that can link straight into the USB socket of that big computer straight ahead.  Not that one, the biggest one in the room – don't play with me, son.'  Scott shook his head angrily, and walked over to the main CPU component.  Spaskyich continued to the other students.  'Make sure those science pricks don't try to stop him.'  

Ororo and Bobby stepped closer to the cornered men, hands raised in a half-hearted greeting.  'Let us do what we came here for; guys – then we'll be out of your hair.'  Ororo said, trying to add some charm to her voice.

Scott placed the device in, and let it search out the information that it was designed to look for.  It started to rattle and hum as it downloaded all the appropriate data streams.  The leading scientist threw up his hands in protest, stepping forward abruptly.  He pushed passed Ororo quickly.  'I can't allow you to do that, you young fool!'  He dashed for the device, hands flailing to rip the device's cord out.  Spaskyich roared in the student's ears.  'Don't let him get to the cord, idiots!'  

Jean raised the small pistol to the scientist's body.  'Stop!'  She yelled, her voice shaking under tension.  'Stop it, I said!'  The man paused, looking to them.  'This is extremely sensitive data on genetics and biotechnology – I can't let you reap our profit for someone who probably cannot understand the concepts themselves – out of my way!'  He lunged for the device once more, but Scott knocked him onto his back with a hardened fist.  The scientist yelled furiously.  

'Haha – listen, people' Spaskyich shouted down the signal 'I've just got orders from higher up – Jean, I want you to take that guy out, then once the device has uploaded everything, run out the way you came.'  

Jean whirled to Scott, her face an expression of confusion and anxiety.  'What does he mean, "take him out"?'  She asked, staring to her friends.  

'I mean, take him out and shoot him – now get on with it.'  Spaskyich answered.

The device linked to the computer beeped its completion, and the scientist kicked against the floor in anguish.  The other people jostled agitatedly in their corner.  Jean's gaze fell to the pained man below her.  'No way!'  She cried.  Tessa, Ororo and Bobby started to back away to the entrance.  Scott unplugged the device and watched as the scientist got to his feet.  'You're all bastards – sick bastards!  I hope you burn in hell!'  He screamed.

Jean's headset buzzed into life once more, and the same dirty cigarette-laden voice sounded in her ears.  'To think we were gonna hire this idiot – get rid of him Jean.'  Spaskyich stated authoritatively.  

The redhead took several steps backward, the lines of responsibility and panic etched over her flawless features.  'You can do it yourself, because I am not going to kill this guy – he hasn't done anything wrong!'  

The scientist's ears pricked up.  'What?'  He called.

'How do you know he hasn't done anything wrong?  Shoot him in the head now.'

'I'd be able to tell you if I had my telepathy with me!'  Jean cried.

'If you don't shoot him right now, in ten seconds your boyfriend's head is gonna explode.'  Spaskyich shouted down the line.

Scott's fingers laced over the metal chip at the base of his neck, and it vibrated, shocking him.  He fell to his knees in agony as the Scientist took hold of Jean's arms.  He shook the girl violently, but she didn't seem to respond, only starting to weep.  'My name is Essex – Nathaniel Essex, I'm a Doctor of biomechanics and sub molecular biology…'  He panicked, clutching her arms in a tight grip.  Scott started to scream out in pain as the other students surrounded him.  'It's the goddamn chip in his neck!'  Tessa yelled, flipping the teenager onto his back.  She took his hand in hers as he writhed about in the throws of a seizure.  'Jesus, Jean – kill him!'

Nathaniel Essex babbled on, shedding his white lab coat and beating it to the floor.  'Don't kill me – I've got a wife, a beautiful wife and three children – I see them every weekend; I have pictures here, look!'  Jean grabbed her head, dropping the gun on the floor.  'No!  No!'  She cried again and again.  

Spaskyich's calm and malicious voice sounded in her ears once more.  'Scott has five seconds left Jean.'

The other students looked up from their friends' convulsing body.  'Do it, Christ – kill him!'  They shouted.

Essex tore open his grey shirt, the buttons pinging onto the floor harmonically.  'I'm a human being – I have a life – know me!'  He screamed in anguish, his schizophrenic face contorted in perpetual fear. 

Scott's voice ripped through the commotion as he screamed out in agony.  'Jean!'  He shouted.

As the seconds counted down to the last few, the redheaded girl took hold of the small black pistol, and plucked it off the floor.  She pulled the trigger and in a determined crack of smoke, Nathaniel Essex, Doctor of biomechanics and sub molecular biology, husband and father of three, dropped limp to the floor.  A thin, wet cloud of blood issued into the heavy air, and sprayed across the Doctor's prone form.  

Immediately the chip stopped emitting the deadly pulse, and Scott was taken from Spaskyich's hands.  The pain seared across his limp body, bursting in every cell and organ, but as it began to subside, Scott realised it was no longer present.  He breathed deeply, and wiped away a long trail of blood from his nose dibbling over his cheek.  'You not in pain anymore?'  Ororo asked, clutching his head in her lap.  Scott grimaced excruciatingly, attempting to lift himself off the ground.  Spaskyich addressed them again via the headset.  'That was a little party trick I do – I can get out of control when it happens.'  He paused, suppressing a laugh.  'Now get the hell out of there – those technicians have already alerted the security from a small military base a way from here.'  The voice cut out, and as Piotr was helping the broken student to his feet, Scott peeled the headset away, and tossed it to Essex's feet.  Tessa cradled Jean's frantic head in her arms, and then motioned for them to exit.

The scientists surrounded Nathaniel Essex's body, carting it onto a small table as the students left in a hurry.


	5. my heart reached out

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#10

"my heart reached out"

The flight overseas had been a long one, taking almost six hours in total.  He had been travelling alone in first class, mainly because he had the money to do so, but because it gave him more leg room aboard the airplane than in the other seats.  Warren was visiting the Docklands in London where previously, mutant terrorist action had sent up a whirlwind of paranoia and anger among the city.  The situation occurred at the height of Magneto's play for power among the United States, but repercussions had throbbed over the ocean and hit in the centre of one of the biggest cities in the world.  Canary Wharf, one of several iconic structures within the city had had its top half taken off with several well placed explosive devices, and the wreckage had taken a week or so to fully dispose of.  Now it was due to be rebuilt, and Warren's very existence on the scene, even only for a photograph or two, would ensure the mutant community was not seen so clearly to be a threat to the nation's well-being.  

The other reason Warren had been sent to deal with the mop-up operation was because of his public relations value.  Not only did his charming charisma continually shine through amongst crowds of people, but his position as heir to Worthington Enterprises Inc. enabled a significant aura of respect to be cast over him.  Warren Worthington III was going to inherit his father's gigantic business and all the subsidiaries owned under the same name once the old leader let go of the reins.  Of course, having a son involved in potentially life-threatening situations every day was not the wish of his father, but Warren was to consistently disobey him in that respect.  The old man had never been so foolish as to pull the inheritance away, for family blood ties were always stronger than trust or friendship, but his anger at Warren's delusion kept them both at bay.  It was a true rarity to see the two in public together, and even then a smile on a face was usually masking the true judgment underneath.  In his heart Warren believed in fighting the good fight, but the father was to view it otherwise.

Xavier had high opinions of one of his first pupils, especially because of the renowned background and the unique nature of his mutation.  Warren had been in boarding school at the time when a fire had broken out in the dormitories.  The emerging feathers on his winged appendages had started to develop, and he believed that he could save the students caught in the blaze by donning a white bed sheet and pillowcase, pretending to act as an angel – truly earning him the name among his friends at Xavier's.  The action had saved several lives, but it had doused upon him a rather small hero complex which fully engaged once Charles had paid him a visit.  His vocation into that world was not due for several more years as Xavier was still building up the resources for the institution's construction but once completed, Warren had come flying in; glad to escape the near future of his father's corporate shadow.  After the accident at the Whitehouse, less than a full week ago, the student had come away with his left wing damaged, and now only a rest from active interaction would suffice.  Charles was the first to insist he take the time off to mould the situation in London, and so Warren was placed on the first plane out of America.  He appreciated the break.

Being part of Xavier's elite institution was a whole different world compared to that of corporate management.  Warren had his own compartments and divisions of Worthington Enterprises Inc., and the task to oversee all of those was a world unto itself; but when put in context with the training, the discipline and the general atmosphere of the School, Warren felt a lot less inhibited.  To him the difference was clear – as long as he pulled his weight and kept in line with the day to day activities managing the Mansion, he was free to stay and be looked after.  It appeared much less demanding on an everyday basis compared to the mental discipline required when administering the management techniques at the company.  This way, the only strain on his mind was in the heat of a rare physical challenge, whether it be a skirmish on the street, or an all-out war in another country.  The X-Men had encountered serious danger of late, but Warren hoped their time for being heroes had come to and end when he arrived back in less than a week.  It was beautiful to be under the spotlight and camera lens for saving the world, but calling attention to themselves was never the true aspiration of the Institute.  Charles was quite content to let the surrounding neighbours in Salem Center to believe he was running a commune for Jehovah's Witnesses.  

The taxi back to the hotel took a while, but Warren had other things on his mind besides the outrageous fare he was due to pay.  It buffeted past every other vehicle on the motorway, finally slowing as it entered the grand city under the cover of night.  Travelling late always had a toll on his experienced self, so by now he was feeling quite lethargic.  His eyelids fluttered open every so often, the iridescence of glowing streetlamps awakening him.  They glided across the window as the taxi shot by, and Warren briefly noted the tall city buildings approaching in the distance; signs of the high class density populating the luxurious space in the City of London.  When it finally came to rest among the grand hotels, the taxi door opened and a tired young man stepped out.  The driver handed him the luggage, accepted the colossal cab fare and went on his way.  Another person popped out of the open hotel doors, grabbed his suitcase and walked into the red-carpeted lobby. 

'Good evening sir – have you got reservations tonight?'  The English man at the counter asked, flattening out the creases in his fine grey suit.  

'Yes, under Worthington.  Warren Worthington.'  He replied, massaging his temples exhaustedly.  

'Absolutely, we have the record right here.  You've got the regular room with a view of the city out front – is that to your liking sir?'

'Great.'  Warren said.

'Room 208, take the elevator if you wish sir and the boy will bring your luggage with you.  If you need anything at all – including room service, just dial 789 on the telephone supplied and reception can direct you anywhere at all.'

The man proceeded to shower Warren with pleasantries, but he ignored them tiredly and stumbled into the elevator.  By the time he reached the bed and fell in it, the clock read past twelve.  

                                                *        *        *

A stirring dream woke him with a start in the morning.  He glanced to the digital readout in red on the clock display, and muttered angrily to himself for not setting an alarm call.  The sheets were lying in a puddle on the carpet, evidence of a rather active and disturbing dream.  He leaned over the side, suddenly aware of the ache centring round his shoulder blades.  The two large feathered wings on his back flexed involuntarily, spanning a great length in between the room's walls.  He winced, but plucked the light material off the floor and shook it in the air.  Climbing out, Warren spread the sheet carefully on the bed, and flung open his curtains.  Musty yellow light shone through, drawing a glowing line over the floor with his winged shadow in the middle.  The balcony doors slid open in a rusty grating noise, and he stepped into the morning.  In sight of the row of balconies, a small parking lot was half-filled, with many cars making their egression to a stuffy work day.  The Thames River that flowed through the middle of London reflected light gently off its murky brown surface and swayed as jolly white luxury cruisers ploughed across its waters.  Warren's keen senses picked up on the number of engines coughing into the air as they drove off to work.  Soon he would be in one of those cars, destined to show his youthful face at the reconstruction site.  That was still an hour or two away, of course, and he must make time for breakfast and a fresh suit before anything else.  He scratched at the fine sheen of stubble decorating his jaw and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Brighton Jeremiah, the highly regarded senior assistant to Mr Worthington II stepped into the red-carpeted lobby of the hotel and walked up to the English man behind the counter.  'It's nine o'clock.'  He said curtly, as if the lobby man was some sort of nuisance.  'You have a Warren Worthington III staying here – has he signed out yet?'

The man peered at him as if staring over a pair of imaginary spectacles.  In his own restrained high class London voice he replied: 'Would you be a friend or relative?'

Brighton Jeremiah turned back to the man, as if he had just insulted him.  The uptown Las Vegas slight was quite clear in his accent.  'Listen, suit – just tell me if he's still in.  This is the right hotel yes?  I'm his daddy's chief gofer.'

The man clicked his eyes to the right indicating the bar and dining room.  'For hotel patrons only, you understand.'

Brighton Jeremiah nodded, and knocked his expensive watch-clad fist on the marble counter.

Warren mulled over his cup of black coffee and thought about the traces of his dream last night.  A peculiar one by even his standards: he saw people from the school back home, _friends_, locked inside transparent balls.  They were tiny, almost as big as the toys Hamsters and Mice are put in to run along the floor free from danger; only the friends inside these toys seemed to want to undo the cage, and be released.  They were suffocating and fainting from lack of freedom and life – Jean, Scott, Hank and Tessa, and the balls only shrunk smaller.  He was perched on the corner of a table, not unlike the one in the centre of the Mansion's kitchen.  He surveyed their panicking bodies as they scattered across the floor in these miniature circular cages.  He had felt a great distress, almost to the point of crying for them.  Nothing could be more horrible than the confinement of a free spirit; and Warren took another sip from his cooling coffee, remembering other aspects of the surreal dream.  A Sentinel had appeared out of nowhere – almost as large as he was – only it was unrestricted whereas he could not leave his perch.  The balls had suddenly come together with the people inside; weaving a timeless dance as they finally succumbed to death.  Warren remembered flapping insistently, screeching at the Sentinel as it turned its back on his pervading eyes.  He had seen what looked like its leg rising over the transparent balls, and then it had swept down like a piston in an engine, crushing the people under its gigantic foot.  When it retracted, Warren came to on the bed, thrashing in a terror.

His coffee was warm enough to drink now, so he downed it swiftly, and reflected on the meaning.  His wings, which he hid so perfectly among the people in the room with him, they were a burden, and allowed no real freedom from the world around him.  His subconscious was showing him that no matter how hard he soared, coming back down to earth was always at the inevitable end.  All that he'd seen and done with friends at the Mansion simply strengthened his bond with a world that was in more immediate danger than his, because the people in it could not fly away like he could.  The reality was that Warren was allowed no more freedom from prosecution that those whom he sought to protect.  His friends in the dream were only the interpretation of the people whom he was to hold away from the flame; but truthfully, they were just as likely to burn in it as he was.  A great love existed between him and the people at the School, including the founder himself.  Vulnerability was the issue, and not even his wings could fly him far enough from that.  

'Penny for your thoughts?'  Brighton Jeremiah announced, creeping up behind him.

Warren half-turned and placed his cup back down on the table.  He chuckled and shook his head painfully.  'What're you here for?  Did my Father not think I could handle a couple of angry Britons?'  

'Oh, you know Daddy, Warren – he's just anxious you make the right impression on some susceptible people overseas.  Besides, he doesn't want you getting wrathful at any judgmental builders; what with your unique perspective and all.'  The assistant seated himself opposite the outside view, and called over a drink.  As he accepted a swig from the glass and sent the bar waiter on his way, Warren shook his head again.  'It's only nine thirty in the morning…'

'Yeah, but I haven't slept in days.'  He grimaced pleasantly as the alcohol hit the spot inside, and then looked to Warren.  'So when will you be ready to set off?'

'Give me time to call the driver, and then we'll get there a little later than expected – make them wait.'

'Trying to piss people off there son?  Might be a bad move.'  Brighton Jeremiah responded.

'I'm the representative here.'  Warren stated angrily.  'I'd like to make myself seem more important than I actually am.'  He shoved the coffee cup across the table and it clattered noisily.  'I have this thing completely under my control, so if you or my Dad want to call me on anything, then do it through a damn telephone on the other side of the world – where_you_belong.'

Warren stood up, pulled on his suit jacket quickly and strode out into the parking lot, depositing his key at the front desk.  

                                                *        *        *

Having a big name in business was not always what it was cracked up to be, Warren thought annoyingly as he sat on the back seat of the spacious limousine.  Arriving at ten o'clock in the morning outside Canary Wharf, he was greeted with a phalanx of blue suited policemen who ferried him behind their ranks.  A much larger crowd of people gathered outside the building site than he had anticipated, waiting impatiently for the site manager to address them.  Many people were watching the meeting, all there to have their fears lifted from the remains of an incredibly influential building in the centre of London.  When Pietro had set off the explosives on the top four floors, he had ensured that the least amount of people were up there.  That same morning a discussion on Mutant Activism was being prepared, so Magneto's plan as he had seen it had been to destroy their chances of oppressing the registered mutant populous in the city even more.  Clearly his foresight had become clouded somewhat, but the principal lingered.  Canary Wharf was not only an iconic landmark on the Thames River, but also a site for the Stock Exchange, London finances and great morning coffee.  Taking the top floors of an uptown London high-rise was not a way to free the mutant population in the same city, especially when the media knew it was killing in the name of the protagonists.  Worthington Enterprises Inc., like many other corporations had an investment in the skyscraper, so Warren met up with many more business representatives at the site.  He detested every minute of it.  Brighton Jeremiah, who was sitting opposite him in the back of the limo, had been staring over his shoulder the entire time, and Warren was quite sick of it.  He was starting to wish he had never come.

'Your speech was really something.  Had you been preparing it long?'  The assistant asked, rooting through the small drinks cabinet.  The minute lights illuminating the inside of the vehicle couldn't provide enough of an atmosphere for Warren, so he rolled down a window letting air breeze through.  'I thought about what I could say to the people who lost someone in the blast… then I realised that none of them would be there – just mutant haters and landmark supporters asking for an estimate.  I made sure to praise the company too, if you're wondering.'

'I was there, I heard.  How do you find it in your soul to talk to these people?  Don't you see that you repulse them?'  Brighton Jeremiah reminded him obnoxiously.  The man cracked the seal from a can of expensive cider and downed its contents.

'It's not easy, but I do my best.'  Warren replied mechanically.  He stared at the object across from him – a stocky middle-aged Las Vegas gaming commissioner turned senior company assistant.  He was nothing more than his father's personal lap-dog, fit only to do odd jobs for a man that had way too much on his schedule.  The receding hairline and bald patch surrounded by a mess of greasy black hair made him appear even seedier than Warren thought possible.  The nice suit and expensive watch simply added to this façade.  He leered crudely at the student, sucking at the can in his fat hand.  

'God; when did you become such a loser?'  Warren asked, shaking his head.

Brighton Jeremiah laughed heartily, as if such a comment was a regular occurrence.  'Don't be so stuck up.  I try and get by, but it ain't easy!  I take a lot of crap from your old man, but sometimes you just have to say: I got to make time for the track; and if that means foregoing the odd beer or five beforehand, then I'll just got a bottle of Vodka from the off-licence on the way.'

Warren stared out the window as the limo drove past other various hotels and buildings.  The wind whipped against his extremely short fair hair, and he started thinking how a man like Brighton Jeremiah would ever work for his father – a man of quality and respect.  

'Chill out Warren, don't get so stressed' he chuckled 'perhaps you should get a massage.  Oh, hang on, maybe you shouldn't.'

Warren stared at him with unbelievable contempt, and silently thanked the driver as the limo pulled up outside the hotel's parking lot.

                                                *        *        *

He had arrived in the middle of summer in London.  Hot, stuffy, boiling London, with its fuming chimneys stacks and exhausts billowing into the atmosphere.  It magnified the heat of the sun, bouncing around the ultra-violet rays inside enormous dust clouds that lingered above the city.  The oppressive warmth was overpowering at the height of the day, so people tended to stay off the streets if a work break was organised.  The once pleasant smell of morning coffee began to turn stale and overcooked during the midday sun.  It permeated the area, mixing with more exhaust and noxious chemicals.  Even in his hotel room many floors above street level, Warren could feel the pain of the light on anyone below.  He lay on the muggy white bed sheets gazing up at the ceiling fan whir in an endless circle.  It swished cooler air onto his face, the small layer of sweat hardly reacting to it.  He kept watching it rotate, believing it could do so until the end of time.  Warren could almost see the imperceptible current of cool air pulsing down from the quick blades; it came in waves, brushing against his steaming bare skin.  His wings stretched out, lying over the expanse of the mattress and off each end; they swayed of their own accord, trying to fan him.  Noticing the quick attempt of re-growth for his feathers, Warren found himself surprised – he hadn't banked on the chance that they could appear on his left wing so soon after the accident.  Great, he thought gladly, that's only got good connotations.  However hard he trained and sought full health at the school, if his wings were still out of commission, he couldn't be called upon to join the team.  Warren owed it all to his strong metabolism and this way, Tessa would be able to give him a clean bill of health once he got back.

Unfortunately, the comfort in his strengthening wings did nothing for the incredible heat breaking his concentration on the fan above.  His body was sweating profusely, and Warren wished that he'd booked a room with proper air conditioning.  Sweating was something that Warren was not used to, even in the tensest of situations.  His body's veins, arteries and other blood vessels were much thinner than those of a normal person, mainly to cope with the high altitudes he could reach with the two powerful wings on his back.  His bones were hollow also, allowing for less bodily mass to cope with in flight.  At his peak performance, Warren could reach truly inhuman heights when flying.  Because of his particular biology then, he was not used to sweating, but the heat was knocking his system off.  He stirred, and rolled onto his front to get some sleep.  Freeing the mind by closing the eyes was a lot better than being hypnotised by the ceiling fan.  

He awoke several hours later and realised the heat had finally sunk below the horizon.  Rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes, he put on a shirt and long coat, and then made his way out of the hotel.

                                                *        *        *

He had wondered far from the hotel, coming over a bridge to the other side of the city.  The area seemed much less cosy now, quite desolate and rundown in comparison.  Streets were filled with seedy and dirty buildings of varying sizes, and the pavements had become littered and grey with fumes and dropped chewing gum.  Phone booths looked battered and overcome, the receivers dropping from every holder, and housing estates looked menacing as the backdrop for his vision of London at night.  Taxis and night buses passed him in the darkness, shooting their headlight beams over the parked cars and black-bagged dustbins.  He stared ahead of him, wandering idly down the long stretch of road.  Footsteps ushered from behind, and a young man walked by, allowing Warren to settle his paranoia.  Although his trance state of idle wandering led him deeper into unknown territory, Warren was still peripherally aware of everything else about him.  The heat had come down a lot by now, and the further he walked, the cooler it became, until a simple breeze caressed his dry brow.  Then Warren realised that his delve into the other half of London had drawn him away.  'Where the hell am I?'  He muttered, staring around for a sign to the bridge, or at least the nearest tube station.  He may not have been a regular resident in London, but the transport could not be a problem.  More footsteps sounded in the distance, but he didn't really notice.  

He took to the direction in which he had come, but Warren clearly wasn't sure of whether it was the original path or not.  He came to a line of garages, each with every door sealed shut from prying eyes.  Their metallic surface reflected the pathetic street lamp light badly, but also the lights and sounds of a small pub off in the distance.  Of course, he thought, I'll be able to find my way when I ask in there.  The echoing chants and cheers reverberated down the street, and the talked-over sound of music playing assured him that he was free from danger among this wilderness.  As he made it up to a jog, a chance notion flashed into his head, and he slowed, turning the though over once more as it had arrived.  Warren was quite sure he heard something whilst passing that last alleyway.  It separated two sizeable garages, and the sound was almost like a moan, _a call for help.  The young man stepped closer, just outside the entrance and peered inside, but the thought itself seemed to be fading – consumed by his own suspicious doubt.  He began to wonder whether he'd heard anything at all when the noise repeated itself.  'Someone…?'  It moaned quietly.  There was a shifting sound of bags and dustbins, and the voice encouraged him deeper into the ominous alley._

'Hey.'  It said; it was a smooth, flowing sound that caressed his sensitive ears.  In the half-light of the broken streetlamps, Warren's eyes searched for the form, trying to pinpoint its origin.  Of course, he knew better than to follow a stranger down a dark passage at night, but the enticing, sultry purr of the words seized his sensibilities.  It was as if he was being drawn in.

'Help me, man – I'm hurt…'  The soft female voice clawed at his emotions.  A surreal pang of compassion flooded into his mind, floating above any other ideas or worries.  Warren took several steps further into the darkness, his neck tingling gently from fear of the unknown.  His ability to speak somehow deserted him, and adrenaline replaced it.  The familiar buzz of tension and anxiety was present too, but less so.  

'Hey now, I'm over here…'  It was almost as if he was being drawn in; drawn in as bait.

As a taxi skidded by on the road, its headlights cutting into the black shadows, Warren was struck by just how gullible he had been.  What a fool I am, he though as the recognition hit him.  The voice had not come from within the alley, it _was_ the alley – it was everywhere, and all around him, radiating through his vulnerable mind like a stuck splinter.  The presence of danger had utterly vanished while he stopped, and he wondered why as another familiar sensation invaded his body.  It was the feeling of a new mind touching his – the senses enlivening as they went into overload.  The lusty voice luring him in with its beautiful mantra was nothing more than a telepath, attempting to violate his thoughts and bend them to her will.  Even with his back turned on the attacker, Warren was sufficiently endowed mentally to study this vicious intrusion and its creator before she severed the neuron control in his head.  

The assault lasted all of five seconds, but to Warren it felt like several hours of excruciating pain while he endeavoured to scrutinise her features, analyse the most recent memories lying on the surface and the method she was using to bring him down.  With a relief that seemed like every muscle in his body was simultaneously tensing to breaking point and then relaxing blissfully, Warren crumpled to the ground and splashed into a dirty puddle.  Goddamn it, he thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

                                                *        *        *

He kept imagining a large cat was nudging his dead body as he lay in a grave.  A surreal fantasy, he considered, when his eyes finally opened and a drunken man breathed alcohol into his face from mere inches away.  Warren waved his head painfully, and motioned him away as he tried to get up.  'You look like one dirty son-of-a-bitch.'  He said, swallowing a belch.  The student checked himself, and wiped away the muddy water decorating his expensive trousers.  They were soaked, and he would probably have to get some new ones.  He started to wonder how long he'd been asleep for, and assumed that it couldn't have been more than an hour or so.  The drunk prodded him with an outstretched finger, but giggled manically and then ran off.  

Warren watched him go, and placed a hand in every pocket on his person.  A black leather wallet, his beautiful silver watch and a pair of glasses were all missing.  Why the hell would anyone want to steal my glasses, he asked himself, thinking that the world was sometimes just too harsh.  The streetlamps still flickered incessantly, but Warren knew they would be of no use to him getting back to the hotel.  Angrily, he tore off his stained shirt, placed his long jacket in hand, and proceeded to let his white wings free from their confines.  They flapped mightily, and Warren propelled himself into the air.  

His way back to hotel was much simpler this way than going on foot, so he stayed in the air until the balcony for his room came into view.  The outside doors were locked, but he wrapped the jacket around his fist and punched through the glass.  Opening the door, he discarded the jacket on the bed, and went into the bathroom.  

                                                *        *        *        

The ability to detect and decipher elements of a psychic assault was one of the key training points that the students underwent regularly at the Mansion.  Charles was very insistent that they should be prepared for such an attack, for he knew the power that opponents possessed and wielded during a fight.  Maintaining control of one's own brainpower during a psychic assault was more important than attempting to physically fight off the attack because the mind was always the key to unlocking secrets and information.  If you were to concentrate on how the attack was being made or how to stop it, then the mind became vulnerable.  The minute Warren realised he was under the woman's control, whoever she was, he had focussed on shutting down his own thoughts and tailing the pattern she was weaving within his mind.  Those last few precious seconds had allowed him to poach what little information he could from her open mind.  If Warren had struggled physically with the woman, he could have brought about detrimental damage to himself.  Instead, he succumbed to the dangerous will, and accepted that she was overpowering him.  Before passing out, Warren had discovered a rather precise residual self-image of his attacker, which was actually the way in which she saw herself.  The accuracy with which she did so allowed the image to become even clearer in his own mind, so Warren found himself looking at her even though she was behind him.  Thankfully the picture had stayed with him, and so Warren went back to the same spot the next morning, only in a lot less expensive clothes.  His hunt might have seemed completely futile if not for the image of her in memory, but Warren was determined to retrieve his belongings.  If it had to be through stealth or storm to do so, he was ready.

                                                *        *        *

Irrationality was not part of Warren's emotional lexicon, but when he saw the woman once more, holding up an older man and his wife in a similar looking alley the next night, he clutched at a knife concealed in his deep jacket pockets.  

The weapon had come from the hotel kitchens that morning, and Warren had surprised the people behind the lobby counter by coming down the stairs and collecting his room key.  After breakfasting, then calling Brighton Jeremiah to cancel his lunch with him, Warren made his way across the bridge once more to the same area.  The pub was closed in the early hours but as lunch time came around, his exhausted search stopped for a bite to eat.  After managing to stay on his feet a little longer, Warren slowly stalked the entire area, remembering from the attacker's most recent memories that she was put up in place resembling the buildings surrounding him.  His wait had been long and patient, and he was beginning to give up hope until the streets became quite quiet as evening fell.  Again, the only noises he could hear in the same chain of deserted streets was the sound issuing from the pub nearly a whole block away.  Warren hid surreptitiously in the shadows, nudging dustbins and bin bags out of the way while he waited.  

He didn't really recognise what had taken him over until the awareness of his situation dawned on him.  He was being purely ridiculous; acting like a Private Detective in some nineteen forties black and white film noir.  Shadows swayed in the moonlit breeze, illuminating the trees and buildings towering overhead.  Warren could feel the air brush against his cheek as his eyes followed the couple down the street; a middle-aged lean man with his wife in arms.  They chatted quietly among the run down buildings, walking by every dark alley as if it didn't exist.  Warren remained unmoving through watching all of this, instead keeping his back against the doorway of a closed shop across from the two.  His hands fell into the pockets of his long jacket as he sensed the attacker's presence coming close.  She crept out of the shadows, with two thin fingers held to her temple and the other hand out to command the couples' thoughts.  She was a young woman, Warren suspected, maybe not even out of her teenage years.  She had long dark hair bound in a ponytail, with a tinge of purple added to it, and she wore a shorter, camouflage green jacket and some torn blue jeans as well.  Her movement seemed to betray her elegance at the process, but Warren knew she was in more trouble than it seemed.  Although only one teenage girl, the way in which she had robbed him had suggested more experience than her years dictated.  The police are probably on the lookout for this girl, he thought.  

The couple inched into the alley, oblivious of their immediate danger.  The conversation died as the man parted the bins and bags to find what he thought was a woman in distress.  The girl stepped quietly behind the two of them, and then clutched at her head with both hands.  Warren watched, mesmerised by the display before him.  His hand felt for the blade in his pocket, and fingertips ran slowly over the edge.  Suddenly, the girl jerked backwards as the woman toppled over and the man slumped against the dustbins.  A loud clatter sounded in the alleyway, and Warren decided to make his move.  

The girl swivelled round to catch sight of a silhouette, illuminated by the lights of a passing taxi.  Her brown eyes flew open as she realised she'd been compromised.  Hands snaked out of the couples pockets and receded as the girl stood up.  She thought for a second, and then raised her hand to her temple once more.  Warren acted quickly and swatted her arm away.  She made for the small gap to his right, and Warren swung his weight in that direction.  This girl was quick though, and she performed a bizarre double take, dashing through the gap to his left.  Warren spun around and reached out; he caught her wrist in one hand, but she raised her leg and kicked it violently out of the way.  With the suddenness of her actions and the unexpected pain, Warren lost his footing and fell backwards.  The girl screamed to attract any nearby attention and then ran off down the street.  Her pace was quite incredible, but Warren assumed she had to be that fast if anything ever went wrong.  He flipped onto his feet once again and gave chase.

Tree branches and random leaves whipped up off the floor in the girl's wake, slapping against the side of his face while he struggled to keep up with her.  More than once she darted across the abandoned road in the clear moonlight, trying to lose or at least tire him out.  The brightness of the moon in the sky made sure his path was clear, reflecting off windshields and silvery garage doors.  His feet snapped against the concrete repeatedly, echoing down the widening road as she threw herself over parked cars in an effort to outrun him.  Her jacket billowed in the wind, and she had to twist violently several times to avoid colliding with post boxes and parked vehicles.  They stormed past another couple who watched as their disappearing forms headed toward the new bridge.  

Warren was definitely starting to feel the incredible pace while they ran endlessly.  In the back of his one-track mind, a thought did occur to him as to why he was chasing the girl so fervently.  It seemed that a simple call to the police could get his glasses back, but something else was blocking that thought from fully entering his head.  Maybe it was because she was young, or maybe it was because he was attracted to her; he didn't know yet.  She was going by another large sign, but didn't seem swayed by its information.  Warren caught sight as it came into view, and knew she planned to cross the bridge.  His blue eyes engaged hers as she looked back, and her face was expressionless until her body crashed into an oblivious woman.  The girl tumbled over the astonished woman, but climbed straight onto her feet again, risking another glance behind her shoulder.  Warren had gained at least five or six strides in the process and was quickly coming within reaching distance of her arm.  He lurched out and grabbed for it, but a new burst of speed blossomed in the girl's body, and she cried out her brave effort.  The cold steel alloy of the bridge resonated as their fast landing footfalls smashed along the walkway in a frenetic chase.  The girl swivelled and toppled left to right dodging the lines of people crossing the beautiful new construction.  It faced both sides of the Thames River, every building and boat in the view glowing with a string of angel blue lights.  Warren might have regarded on the epic scene if he hadn't been busy throwing himself between the panicked people on the bridge.  A growing burn boiled in the pits of his lungs, threatening to consume his entire upper body if he ran any further.  He was used to running, but this girl seemed to be making the entire journey in a mad sprint to outdo his stamina.  Her constitution was truly amazing, but as she slowed, the strain began to show.  Her panting was quite clear in the crisp night air.

Since their start, Warren assumed she was running to simply escape his menace, but what he didn't know was that she was making for the nightclub open just beyond the length of the bridge.  Coming to the end, the girl rounded the steps and bounded shakily to the concrete road below.  Warren tracked in close proximity, hounding her like a terrier.  The girl spun into the line of clubbers standing to get into the building, and there was an outcry as she shot into the entrance ahead of them.  Warren managed to follow through the open gap, but did not bank on the bouncers inside.  They turned in anger and pursued her retreating form, so Warren was able slip by with relative ease.  Sounds of underground London blasted into his head as the volume in the nightclub peaked at ear-bleeding levels.  Darkness enveloped him, and the scent of a million jumping clubbers permeated his senses.  Everywhere around him people were bucking and swaying to the crushing thump of bass, and smoke from a machine was flung over their heads, further ruining his chances of catching her.  Instead of seeking out her particular face and clothes, he started looking for a more random sequence of actions than the repetitive rhythm with which people danced to in this atmosphere.  After several seconds amid the bumping mass of sweating bodies, Warren saw the large bouncers forcing their way through the crowd.  The girl snaked into his view, but blocking his path to her was an overcrowded sofa filled with bottles and drunk dancers.  She darted even closer, so he tried to grab for her, but the strobe lights activated and the rapid stop-start noise threw his senses off balance.  The lights became even faster among the clubbers, and as scenes of the hall lit up and went black he started to feel like he was taking part in a slideshow.  

The girl threaded her way in and out, paying close attention to the activity straight ahead.  Warren stood back for a moment and watched as the bouncers made their way for her in what looked like some surreal epileptic fit.  The strobe lights buzzed on and off, and as the lead bouncer was just about to grab hold of her, Warren leaped out of the darkness and ram against him.  The bouncer collided with the jumping people, and a quarter of the room proceeded to topple onto their backs.  The girl stared at him questioningly for just a second, but in a swift flash of the strobe lights, she dashed through two large fire exit doors and out of his sight.

Fairly astounded at his own behaviour, the student crept out after her.  He managed to dodge the large number of bouncers all looking for him, while the music continued.  He came out of the back alley, and into the better lit area beyond the nightclub.  Stepping just into the streetlamp light once more, the girl lunged for Warren, breathless from the pursuit.  Her hand snaked around his neck and she tugged backwards, pulling him to the ground.  Having been caught off guard again by this girl, he decided to play rough with her, and make sure he was in control of the situation.  He grasped the arm around his collar, and ripped it forward whilst bending over on one knee.  She tumbled over his back and onto her bottom.  Warren raised himself and heard her give an audible 'Ouch!'  Getting up to combat him, the girl was thrust against the far alley wall, and smacked into it with Warren's weight behind the push.  'Christ, you're crushing me!'  She yelled painfully.  By this time her hair was free of the ponytail, and it hung in a mess as she struggled lamely with him.  'Give me back the stuff you stole from me!'  Warren exclaimed, breathing deep to fight off the exhaustion.  She wiggled again, and attempted to throw him off.  Her lips drew back, bearing white teeth viciously.  'Get the hell off me, you stupid yank – we'll both get caught by my friends, and then you'll be in some serious crap!'

Warren studied her chiselled face closely, wondering whether she was telling the truth or not.  'You mean it?'  He asked, forcing himself against her once more.  He held her arm by her back, threatening to crack it painfully if she moved any more.  'Ow!  Yes – I'm supposed to meet with these two guys in the nightclub – ow!  God; they saw me in there, and if I don't report back they'll beat me up, and you too.'

He let off her arm slightly.  'Why don't you just use your telepathy on them, then?  I know you're a mutant.'

'I'm a tool of theirs… they say they can hunt me down at any time.  I've seen a gun on one of them once.'  She said, her voice lowering for a sad explanation.  

'Make me believe you, girl.'  

'Just let me go, and I swear I'll give you your stuff back, I don't want to get caught with nothing on me, otherwise that's grounds for a hit.'  She said the last part with a large aspect of sarcasm.  'I can only see them if I've got a stash, and if I give you your stuff back, then I have nothing.'

'You could have seen them last night…'  Warren said suspiciously.  He was anxious to get them both out of the alleyway, but he had to be sure she was truthful.

'Get on with it!'  She yelled, shoving herself against him.

He let her go, and she grabbed his arm to make for the main street.  Her personality was starting to shine through, and Warren was thankful at least for her honesty and willingness.  She placed a strand of dark purple hair behind her ear, and gave him an ambivalent small smile.  

'Hey,' the bald black man called, stepping through the fire exit doors 'you going somewhere, love?'

The girl turned around, and clasped Warren's arm, stepping behind him.  'I told you not to wait, now he's gonna go ballistic.'  She whispered.  Warren held his ground, and neither took one step forward nor one step back.

'Who's that?'  The new man asked, pointing crudely to the mutant.

'I haven't got anything for you tonight, I'm sorry.'  The girl clarified.  'I tried, but a car ran me off, and I didn't want to make myself known – I'm really sorry.'

'You don't have to be sorry…'  Warren said quietly, looking down on her.

'We tell you to get a load nearly every night – what did you think you were doing last night?  Where's the stuff from then?'

'She doesn't have anything to give you, friend.'  Warren stated indignantly.

'Who're you?  I'm not your bloody friend, ya goddamn yank – get lost before I lose my temper with our girl here.'  The bald black man shouted.

'I already said –' the girl started, but was cut off when the man's right fist aimed at her cheek.  She instinctively flinched, and her body moved into Warren's.  The student whipped out a hand to defend her, brushing the incoming fist away, and then launching a blow of his own.  It knocked alongside the man's mouth, sending him away for a moment.  Warren collected himself, and threw another punch into the man's left temple.  He staggered, and then collapsed into a plastic wheelie bin.  The girl took his bleeding hand and tugged them both into the main street.  

                                                *        *        *

He took her to a small open coffee house just south of the hotel in the off chance that she might talk to him about her actions.  Having run from the insensible thief at the nightclub, she was quite desperate not to be alone that night, and allowed him to make headway with her – if only for a while.  They sat in the corner of the dimly lit shop, away from the few other people deciding to top up their caffeine levels at this ungodly hour.  Only drunk college students and first date couples packed the few tables just at the entrance while the girl chose the most concealed table at the back.  

Warren placed the cup of decaf back on the small table, watching the girl opposite him circle the rim of her cup lazily with a delicate finger.  He savoured his taste of the hot beverage, and licked both lips subtly.  Her eyes passed over his momentarily, and she looked at his clothes, studying him study her.  'You going to tell me your name, danger-man, or do I have to guess?'  She asked, placing some humour into the question.

'Warren.'  He replied.

'Warren, eh?'  She said, rolling the word around her tongue.  'My name's Elisabeth, but people call me Betsy.'  She sipped the coffee and glanced out of the window nonchalantly.  'Surname's Braddock in case you were wondering.'

He had heard of that last name before; it seemed relevant to his business mind for some reason.  A spark triggered his memory, and he said: 'Are you part of the Braddock Private Foundation, or does that mean nothing to you?'

She brightened falsely as if hearing her pet dog sit up and bark.  'So you know about the BPF then?  Wonderful!  Yeah, I'm part of it – well, I used to be.'

'That's a respectable English business – my father's company, Worthington Enterprises, knows about it.'  He replied, the business brain coming in to play with the conversation.

'Good for you, mate, but don't mind me if I switch off now.'

'We don't have to talk about our families if you don't want to, I didn't want to pry.'  He looked at her, noticing the slumped shoulders and disengaged expression.  'Want more coffee.'

'No.'  Betsy replied dejectedly.  She studied him again after a few seconds, realising she had offended him.  'I'm sorry, but look – I had an argument one day with Daddy, and just left home.  Ever since then, more and more crap has piled itself on top of me – those blokes who get me to steal, for instance – I just get downhearted whenever I hear about the old family.'

'Why don't you just go back?'  Warren asked tentatively.

'I couldn't: the way I left things, my father would prefer to set me up away from the house and never speak to me again; then, what's the use in having a place when you don't even talk to anyone in the family?  I decided to run, and from then on I kept running from place to place.'

'Don't you ever get tired of it?  Never knowing what the future holds can be pretty risky when you base your life on it.'  He said, reflecting on his own existence with the X-Men.

'After my mutation kicked in, I thought I could do on my own… it gave me the kind of life philosophy that a drifter depends on.'  Betsy responded.

'Maybe you should take care of yourself better – you're a beautiful girl, and you must have missed several years of your life already.'

'I may have been living for a while on the streets, Warren,' Betsy said, smiling slyly at him 'but I still know when someone's coming onto me… so trust me, I _know how to take care of myself.'  She stated confidently._

'Yeah, I must have chased you for eight or nine blocks – sprinting all the way.  I'm fit – really – but that was just weird.'  He laughed, unsure of her reaction.

'Well, as I said…'  Her smile was becoming more apparent throughout the course of the conversation, and Warren was getting more comfortable signals from her, even if she didn't consciously know it. 

There was a pause between them, and both went back to the drinks in hand.  He noticed her becoming more receptive, and because Warren felt he was a good judge of character, he presented her with a fairly delicate question.  'Can I have my stuff back, Betsy – I need those glasses to read.'

She stared at him, and then shook her head in agreement with herself.  'Course; of course you can – sorry… I'm so sorry Warren – did I hurt you?  I didn't mean to, I swear.'

'You didn't hurt me; I just… need the glasses.'

She fidgeted, and started to move.  'I have to get back to… wherever, but thanks for the coffee, man.'

'What?'  He asked.

'You're a really nice guy, Warren and I'm sorry I took your things – I needed the money for cigarettes and other stuff… really.'  She turned to exit, and then with her head bowed low, said: 'I appreciate the coffee.'

Still seated, he watched her leave and then stared into her empty cup.  Did I scare her away, or is she afraid of herself?  He wondered, finishing his own drink.  Betsy walked past the coffee house window, and gave him a quick look before crossing the street.  'Wait a damn minute.'  He said to no-one in particular.  Jogging out after her, he crossed the street and came up behind her young form.  'Is that what I get for rescuing you?  A handshake and a cup of coffee, then: "goodbye"?'

She was taken aback, and stopped under the light of a solitary street lamp.  'What else do you want?  I'm not a bloody hooker, you know.'

'Jesus, I didn't say you were – maybe I need someone to talk to – you look like crap, and I bet you could probably use a good chat as well, am I right?'  He insisted, taking her by the shoulders.

Betsy brushed him off, and made to pass by.  'Don't be so dramatic – I'm perfectly fine, and what's more is that I don't need your pandering companionship.'

'You live on the streets, so don't tell me you're above me!'  He shouted, walking after her.  She gave him a disparaging look, telling him to back down, but Warren wasn't going to comply with that.  'What do you need then, Elisabeth?'

'I don't need you!'  She shouted, walking across the road once more.  She was about to wander into the darkness of night, but Warren kept his eyes on her for a few more seconds, considering what to do.  He took several purposeful strides over into her path, wrapped his fingers around her chin, and kissed her harshly.  She nearly retracted from the embrace, but left herself vulnerable to him a little while longer.  'Did you need that instead?'

He felt her panting lips breathe softly against his mouth, accepting his intimacy.  Her eyes fell onto his, and she parted her mouth slowly.  'My name is Betsy.'  She said quietly.

A car horn beeped loudly in front of them, and both were pulled from their closeness.  Warren led her out of the road.  'Do you want to come back to my room?'  He asked, more confident of her answer this time.

                                                *        *        *

Warren's tension from the recent events had at last been dissipated, leaving a sea of calmness that washed over his relaxed mind that morning.  His muscles didn't seem burdened with responsibility or an aching blend of aches and pains anymore.  All the anxiety and worries had pooled from his weary, hero performing body, and what remained was an appreciation for the vacation and his unique lifestyle.  Of course, he couldn't owe it all to Betsy's disposed manner and her acceptance of him in the end, but their actions only a few hours ago had lifted a large weight off of him.  The tearing pain in his left wing had freed itself overnight as well, which he was grateful for.  He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but her connection with him seemed a little more profound than just skin deep.  Maybe her telepathy has something to do with it, he mused, lying half asleep on the damp bed sheets.  Everything about last night clicked for him: they had come back to his room and talked for a while, mostly about their individual lives and circumstances; and after a while the rapport developed, and she had made the second move.  She was truly beautiful; the flowing dark hair and flawless skin with just the slightest hint of Asian complexion made her a true vision in his eyes.  Betsy had been quiet, but Warren could feel her expression through everything she did.

Underneath the hardened exterior, the girl was still a real person in a bad place.  Although he had never hit the streets like her, Warren knew the idiosyncratic oppression that came from a rich and detached family life.  He had decided to become an arm of his family whole, and his judgement of her did not waver upon the realisation that she chose to abandon her responsibility.  If once he had gained her foresight, Warren knew his choice would have been different.  The only dissimilarity in solution was that he had now become the limb of a better and more diverse whole – one in which he enjoyed playing his part.

Nudging his peaceful body out of such reverence, Warren rolled onto his side, expecting to find her lying beside him.  An empty space greeted his gaze, filled with tangled sheets.  He whipped out of bed, and adjusted his clothes, picking the appropriate ones from his lived-out-of suitcase.  A quick drink and splash of water on his face brought the sleep out of him and Warren walked hurriedly from the room.  He dashed out into the red-carpeted lobby and gave a look to the same man behind the counter as the night before.  The old English man raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, and then nodded to the entrance.  As Warren stepped out into the glowing morning sunlight, there was a great booming noise overhead.  He dismissed it as a low-flying 747, and then saw Betsy's disappearing form just ahead of the parking lot.  

She was striding quite quickly before his footsteps alerted her.  She turned, the breeze curling her free hair around her neck.  'I thought you could use the sleep – you seemed wound up.'  

'Wound up?  Yeah, I am because you're leaving.  What did you think we were doing last night?'  He asked, concerned.

'It was just a one night stand.'  Betsy replied, not quite believing the conviction in her voice.  

'Was it?'  

'Wasn't it?'  She asked.

'It's clichéd I know, but I felt something between us – didn't you?  I don't want you to leave because of anything else other than our feelings.'  Warren put down.

'How do you feel then?  I wasn't sure that you wanted to see me again.'  She said hesitantly.  'I have heard that kind of thing before.'

'I do want to get together again – I'm not interested in our ages, cultures or our damn nationalities, none of those things matter to me anymore.  I'm a real person, and so are you.'

'I live on the streets, Warren!'  She laughed uneasily.  'How do you expect anything to work?  You don't even live in the same country – I always said you were too dramatic.'

A thought struck him.  'Come with me!'  He shouted excitedly.  'Come back to the States with me – you're a mutant, so you can join the School like the rest of us.'  Betsy gave him a rather irresolute look, but the longing pang in her heart told her to go with him.  'Charles can give you a room, a place to stay and food to eat, everything.'  He continued.

'How do I know, Warren – you might be married or in a relationship back home, plus my family here.'  She was thinking of catches in the prospect, but secretly it appeared extremely attractive.

'I'm not in a relationship or married, and you said yourself that you never want to see your family again!'  

'My guise as a small-time girl thief will go out the window, though…'  She said to him grinning.  'You think I would fit in?'

'You'll see, Betsy, that there're a lot of people like me and you signed up.  We'll be individuals among a collective.'

She started another question for him to assure her of, but her speech and even the ambient noise around the two was drowned out as the loud grumbling boom of the Blackbird sounded overhead.  It startled both of them, to see this giant black eagle soar above, and then land with considerable ease in the hotel's parking lot.  People in the surrounding area stopped their early morning ablutions to witness the smooth movement of the elegant jet, wondering how and why it had appeared.  Dust blew up from the blackened tarmac, issuing forth into the atmosphere, and the wake from the large engines created quite a gust for the two young mutants standing below.  Warren placed his hand protectively on her back, and stood proudly as she observed this majestic example of his life.  She began to protest, but he silenced her with a wide grin.  'My friends.'  He explained simply.


	6. no more no quarter

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#11

"no more no quarter"

The sterile steel wall behind Rogue's hunched back was truly unyielding, and a great fear from pain shrouded her nervous stance since being put in the cell.  She was cut off from everyone else in the block, including her only companion in the compartment following hers.  An incredible towering sense of isolation overcame her much of the time, disabling her completely for the duration of the sour mood.  Fresh air and warm sunshine were two of the simplest aspects of a free environment that she longed for the most, and even those were denied to her.  This feeling of forced seclusion was so strong that Rogue found herself crying for hours some days, unable to eat or drink.  The suffocating sensation was so powerful it once forced her into a fit of hyperventilation, and then the only way to stop it was for the guard beside to beat on her.  Not such a method of torture, but rather that of discipline, Spaskyich believed it was the only way to break her spirit.  And he had successfully.  Her only communication was with Remy, who was hardly ever conscious or even in the next cell much of the time.  The thickness of the separating walls, and the strictness of enforced silence made a conversation almost impossible, not that there was much to talk about.  The severity with which Spaskyich and Kryles pursued escapees was demonstrated with her Cajun boyfriend, and Rogue wished he had never attempted his egression.  Although touch between the two was impossible for more than about five seconds, she still felt much attachment to the rugged French swamp rat. 

After escaping Magneto's much media-covered downfall, the two mutants abandoned the Savage land and their fellow acolytes to seek out a new life.  They had flown from Australia to France, hoping to reconnect with any relatives Remy might have had in some of the major French cities, but during the flight they had to change aircraft, and SHIELD agents had picked them up in an effort to punish followers of Magneto's regime.  Given the magnitude of their master's incentives and actions, Nick Fury – the head of the military Division of the CIA, SHIELD – inadvertently handed Remy and Rogue over to the Weapon X programme, hoping that Hawk Spaskyich would take care of them.  Fury was clearly not fully aware of the true nature of Weapon X, otherwise he never would have commissioned such a transfer.  But that was his error, and now the two were paying for it.  

Rogue wished she could tell Remy how she felt at the moment; how she would breathe against his ear, touch his heart and kiss his mouth with her soft red lips.  She wanted to be with him now, as she always had since being torn from his side.

Remy was currently tied up in the cell next to hers, nearly touching the other side of the same sterile steel wall.  His fastenings had been reduced to a simple pair of metal handcuffs securing his hands behind the back, and although he was once a thief of sorts, a key card had to be swiped through a reader on the manacles to let him go.  Instead of toying with the idea of escape again, he shook the metal cuffs idly against the wall, banging a repeating pattern into the rest of the cellblock.  If things were up to him, Remy would have taken Rogue to Prague, instead of the more practical destination of France which wound up getting them both caught.  There was no doubt in his mind that being anywhere in America was unsafe, and wherever they were now, that was no safer either.  The guards had had a field day when he was brought back to the Installation, asking him never to leave again without their permission; Remy was quite sure that the only way he could escape without a scratch was through the morgue.  

Morbid thoughts kept him awake at night, the pain never ceasing to catalyse his depressed mind.  His bruises were starting to go down now, and Doctor Kryles had taken excellent care to ensure nothing serious consumed his beaten body, but furtively Remy was formulating a plan to leave.  Having already discovered and briefly studied the layout of many of the ventilation ducts, Remy was confident he could lead Rogue through the miniature tunnels and into the cold air of the snow outside.  The opportunity though could only arise in the event of a prison riot, which he was in no shape to incite at the moment.  For now, the only option was to keep up good behaviour, and say nothing to anyone.  He desperately wanted to see Rogue, but their time together was confined to eating in the mess and the off-chance of an encounter in the sparring rooms.  Pride was not a strong aspect of his personality, but it would be difficult to show his damaged face for more than a few minutes at a time.

So he lay crumpled on the floor, resisting the urge to taunt the guards, as much as he wanted to.  The lights had been turned down in his cell, largely due to the depressive effect it had on the other inmates once their saw him in that state, trussed up like a chicken; and so it was relatively dark, save for the greenish iridescence of the laser bars.  They cut across the length of the entrance, stopping anyone leaving with electric shocks.  He realised how ineffectual it was to try and escape, and gave up hope after a while, consigning himself to a lifetime of banging handcuffs against the metal wall.  

'Rogue!'  He called, after a while.  'You can hear me, neh?'

The thick steel of the walls around them prevented much sound carrying, but Remy was too upset to keep his voice low for the guard's diligence.

'I can hear you.'  She replied quietly.

'Good.'  He said, resting his head on the floor.

A commotion coming from the inside of the main corridor alerted the two young mutants and both watched from their views in the nearly empty cellblock floor.  Only one guard was on duty in the low-lit area, and he seemed undisturbed by the hustling going on just outside.  Instead, he concentrated on a magazine in hand, and propped himself up to the far back wall.  Through the bars, Rogue tapped on the metal a couple of times.  'Do you think the rest of the X-Men are coming back?'  

Remy shook his head, even though no-one could see.  'This place, it is starting to get quiet – hope they stir it up.'

Rogue chuckled softly, leaning against the wall parting the two.  'You're so bad.'

The black-suited agents poked Scott and Jean down the main corridor, back to their cells.  Spaskyich had informed the people watching his new recruits that two of them required some rest after a rather stressful ordeal.  The other students on the mission were ferried into the control room for debriefing and an accolade from the Commander himself.  The break of the outside operation was pleasant for the two young students, in that it didn't have them holed up in the dark, secluded and enforced surroundings that were Weapon X, but compared to their freedom, it was still a terrible experience that none would have wished to undergone.  As the agents were opening the two dingy cells once more, Scott looked over to an inconsolable Jean, still expecting her defeated mood to show through.  She was trembling even now after her horrific actions, and he had to be with her that night, otherwise she might break completely.  Scott felt her spirit was strong, but not that strong.  His own neck and back were still shivering with traces of muscle spasm from when Spaskyich activated the metal chip, but they were finally starting to disperse.  He grabbed and held onto the wall as if to symbolically protest, and said: 'Let me stay with her tonight.'

The agent paused, watching Jean as she suppressed a whimper, and then closed Scott's cell, motioning for the both of them to step inside hers.  Scott held his hands around her shaking shoulders protectively, as the green bars appeared across the entrance and locked them away from the rest of the world.  As the agents departed, Jean sobbed unashamedly and buckled onto the bottom bunk mattress.  'My god,' she snivelled 'what have I done to deserve this?'  Tears began to well in her perfect green eyes, and one rolled down her cheek.  Scott brushed it away with his thumb, hugging the girl as she cried into his shoulder.  'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…'  He repeated in an effort to comfort her.  'You had to do it, Jean –' he shook her, staring through his ruby glasses at those green eyes.  'You had to shoot him.'

She struggled angrily, pushing him away, and getting up.  'He was an innocent man - a man with a family!  I shot someone who never deserved it in the first place!'

'You don't know that, Jean.'  Scott tried to assure her, but it wasn't working so well.

'I would have known that if,' her tears came more readily now 'if I'd had my telepathy…'

He got up and embraced her sobbing form, almost wiping a single streak from his own eye.

From across the cellblock floor, Rogue watched the two students comfort each other, her frustration mounting.  She was locked behind these green bars all day long, without a single glimpse of light or breath of fresh air, and constantly all alone, while those two gained the sympathy of one susceptible man in black.  'Quiet down over there!'  She called, just about taunting the couple.  'Some of us are trying to sleep.'

Even though she was choked up with tears, Jean found the energy to launch a spiteful retort, but it didn't make her feel any better.  Nothing would let her feel the same again, ever.

                                                *        *        *

He was more like an animal – a beast – cowering in the dark, away from prying eyes that would fear and avoid him.  He would be judged and reviled for his appearance, lacking any visible signs of a human nature underneath the sprouting tufts of fine blue fur.  People would be too scared to understand why and how this change had come about, instead opting to dread such a creation of God.  Except he was not a creation from God; no such deity would allow people to view a creature with such a hatred from first sight.  He was a creation of man – an alteration to the physical human body, perfecting it into such a state that he now truly earned his alias as The Beast.  

And he would have to live with the change.  He would have to live with the knowledge that his modifications were the result of a random series of events, leading to that one fateful point which catalysed his awful predicament and catapulted him into a world of prejudice, pain and loneliness.  A single man was responsible for all this, and he would never be forgiven for his hand in a devastating science that made a mockery of the Lord's image – his science of progress.  Ororo could not look at him in the same light.

                                                *        *        *

Sitting back to enjoy his small tumbler of bourbon, Spaskyich observed the parading Doctor in his office with mild enthusiasm.  He scratched gruffly at the flesh gap between the top of stained combat trousers and the bottom of a grey t-shirt, while relaxing amongst the whir of office computer equipment.  To say that the young new recruits' operation was an unbridled success would be an understatement, so he let Dr Kryles pour on the praise at his expense.  They had achieved their goal with little resistance, and in the process, broken their wills and reservations just a little bit further.  Spaskyich was thankful for the deprecating treatment they regularly received, and his agenda against any form of Homo Sapiens Superior research was becoming more apparent and successful because of it.  Already his Weapon X agents had stunted the growth of several key research facilities within Europe, regardless of SHIELD involvement, and this latest effort with Jean's climatic finale had eliminated the most important figure, Dr Nathaniel Essex.  With his presence taken from the equation, Spaskyich estimated that his private vendetta toward the major mutant genetic research programmes would leave the world free of unnecessary science and technology for at least another few years.  At the rate his whirlwind of destruction was travelling, he could set back the entire genetic movement by twenty years, and at the least, allow for the industry to recognise how futile its pursuit is.  It would clearly take time for Spaskyich and his secluded army to make a full impact on the civilised world, but the focussed Texan bigot would not stop until the interest in mutant evolution dispersed worldwide.  Already his base of operations had been relocated three times, but each time Weapon X moved, it became a more efficient unit, a tighter establishment, and a more voracious force.  Any SHIELD communication was kept strictly to a minimum, and Spaskyich made sure they always tied up loose ends.  He sure didn't want the Captain of the most powerful agency in the world breathing down his neck constantly.

At the moment, Hawk was listening to the good Doctor's review of the debriefing, wondering whether to tip some more bourbon into his glass, or wait until Kryles left to do it in secret.  After much debate as the South African rambled on, he took another glass of it straight down his throat, and slammed it roughly on the wooden desk.  'Enough!'  He shouted, grinning magnificently.  'I've decided to devise a couple more plays; that means I want you to prep three of the kids, and get them moving before the sun comes up.'  He was to the point.

Kryles sat in a leather chair opposite, and took out a notepad.  He scribbled in neat handwriting, and rubbed the mistakes with a clean eraser.  

'Use Kitty, the Russian and the tall dark haired telepath… I want to get rid of the remaining Essex team before any SHIELD soldiers have a chance to interrogate them.'  He stared up at the lights, smiling indulgently to himself.  'Ya can guide them on this one, Kyle – and don't screw up, or I'll have you for breakfast my friend.'

The Doctor looked at him, thinking the alcohol was affecting and waited for proper confirmation.  'You want us to kill off the rest of Essex's scientists?  How?'

'They're being held at an outpost south of here, right on the tip of Scandinavian territory in a small public building.  Of course it don't look too obvious, but in a small town where nobody wants to guess, they don't go looking for trouble.  Get those three into the place; get rid of the team and then exit.  You,' he pointed at Kryles demandingly 'keep your finger on the execution button, because if they're found out, I don't want anyone squealing to Fury about their stay here.  The last thing I want is to be shut down after all my effort.'  The Doctor got up to leave, and his superior handed him a small paper with the details written on it.

Kryles got up and walked out of the Commanders office, and back to his post in medical.  It would be a challenging manoeuvre, to engage SHIELD soldiers on their home ground; but with a little ingenuity on his part, anything was possible.  If Kitty, Piotr or Tessa took a wrong turn, he had no compunction about letting them die.  It wasn't his job to care for them, after all.

                                                *        *        *

The crisp white snow stained an idyllic red when Logan's crimson blood spattered over its expanse.  Droplets spouted into the air, arcing briefly in the cold moonlight before splashing down on every surface around him.  The loss of blood was making him excruciatingly nauseous and light-headed, but in his daze, Logan recognised the symptoms like an old companion.  It was lessening with each passing stride, the healing factor within his sturdy body compensating for the damage to the back of his neck and spine.  

After cutting through the walls in the main sparring room, Logan had to pounce on and then kill three of the black-suited guards who obviously weren't used to the cold.  They shivered in the cold air, looking for him once his escape became evident.  They definitely weren't used to the environment, but Logan didn't really feel anything for them as each was murdered.  Part of his old nature had activated during the escape, and there was a certain element of pleasure in meting out their punishment.  One, he recognised from the beatings after his encounter with Sabretooth, so he took that man's gun, and ran off into the night.  All the while the chip at the back of his neck stung with intense pain, but Logan knew Spaskyich had no intention of killing him.  It was a rather brutal game they played, and Logan had won it several times before.  This time would be no different; it was just a matter of will power.  

To deal with the off-putting electric pains in his head, Logan ran a mile or so from the tip of the underground Installation, and then set about removing the metal chip.  Dr Kryles had informed them that sufficient tampering with the device would kill the bearer, but Logan assumed he had nothing to lose.  As it kept distracting him, he finally succumbed to tearing the chip away with three claws on his right hand.  There had been a lot of tissue damage, and so much pain, but luckily he was far enough from the searching guards to let a scream or two perforate the still forest.  After passing out, he awoke in a sweat, his body trying to recover from the awful cold air.  The blood had seeped beautifully into the snow, bloating it like a stuffed animal.  He had gone to the nearest stream, frozen over in the early morning hours, and plunged through the ice to the water underneath.  After washing the evidence on his body away in the freezing liquid, he had resumed the escape.  Unfortunately, the combined actions resulted in a rather vicious migraine, and he found it hard to concentrate.  Awaking a little later after blacking out once more, Logan tried to resume his run.

Although the blood left a trail for them to follow, he was getting better, and every step became a lengthy stride.  The wounds to his head and neck were healing over by themselves after a while, and the longer he travelled, the less it hurt and showed.  He was trotting through the cold snow before his sensitive nose picked up on the familiar scent of his mortal enemy.  Slowing to a crawl before the inevitable confrontation, Logan tried to gain his bearings, hoping that once he had dispatched the miserable tramp once and for all, his escape might become easier.  Sabretooth had been one of his opponents since both their enrolment in the Weapon X programme back in the 1960's.  Chosen for their particular resistance to age and wear, they were both implanted with severe osteopathic reconstruction materials to combat foes on a uniquely feral level, previously unmatched by any other Weapon X agent.  Adamantium, a rather potent alloy of hardened metals, was bonded to the bones in each mutant, allowing for Logan to pop six long lethal claws, and Victor Creed to keep the tips of his nails as sharp as ever with the deadly material.  Although both were practically indestructible through physical damage, there was a certain amount of punishment they could take before finally going down.  The intense hatred had arisen from arguments and the vicious nature of each person, escalating into such a fury, that even the sight or mention of the other could get the adrenalin fuelling around the body.  Logan couldn't quite remember why he hated Sabretooth so much, but it didn't matter, as his enemy detested him with the same strength and zeal.  Whatever the reason was, Logan's addled brain couldn't remember.  The nightmares and horror that plagued his subconscious at night was from memories long lost in the brain.  His first stay at Weapon X had traumatised him so much that he blocked out that part of his life from waking thoughts.  Nothing was fully what it had seemed in his past because of the psychological damage, but he didn't want to stay in the same place to compound the damage.  In the end he ran, because facing the reality of the programme's longing pursuit for an ultimate warrior had yielded to much harm, and after seeing Hank, Logan wasn't about to stick with it to watch the others break.  If they had to be altered to fit one sick man's aspirations, then Logan vowed he wouldn't be with them to witness it.  Perhaps he had led the Weapon X agents to the Mansion, but there was nothing more he could do.  If Logan had tried to riot and kill everyone in the Installation, then Spaskyich could well have executed him, but escape allowed a different sequence of events to play out, and Logan assumed that he might be able to leave untraced.      

The scent from Sabretooth was unmistakable, and so very close, which left Logan wondering whether he should bother to run.  Ahead of him was a sharp cliff that dropped to a bigger forest floor; Logan wished he knew where he was going.  Stealing a map before his departure would have been the most sensible thing to do.

Although his entrance was completely silent, Logan knew before Sabretooth landed on his back that he was coming.  He may not have heard the approach, but his sight and sense of smell indicated as much.  Sabretooth dug ten thin nails into Logan's already damaged back, and ripped at the bare flesh powerfully.  With a high-pitched howl into the night atmosphere, the X-Man spun around and hurled his opponent onto a toppled tree trunk.  Six long, thin metal claws slipped out from incisions just above the knuckles, and Logan bore ferociously down on him.  'Why'dya leave, buddy-boy?'  Sabretooth asked, spitting a wad of bloody saliva at him.  'Your boss's playing with Hank kinda scared me off.  I Figured I didn't want to wind up under Spaskyich's knife once more!'  Given the chance at his downed body, Logan sliced, but cut through the wooden trunk while Sabretooth slipped up behind him.  Noticing his entanglement with the object, Victor took perfect advantage of the situation to exercise his superiority.  He landed several heavy blows across Logan's cheek, before the three claws bent through the wood and came out the other side.  Pouncing atop his floored enemy, Sabretooth scratched at his chest and belly, trying to spill guts across the forest floor.  'No metal enforced bones round here, runt!'  He taunted, circling Logan's stomach with a sharp nail.  He dug it in, and enjoyed listening to another high scream pierce the misty ether surrounding them.  He smacked Logan's bloody head against the dirt a couple of times, and then dragged him by the scruff of his neck onto an ice covered pond.  

In one swift motion, Sabretooth plunged Logan's unintelligible struggling body through the ice and into the frozen water below.  Both hands wrapped around his neck, and Sabretooth leered bitterly as he strangled him.  'You never die any other way, so I thought I'd try and drown you for a change!'  He screamed, laughing like a hyena.  'No blood to the brain means no mutant healing power… See if ya can survive like that, ya filthy bastard!'  Under the surface of the water, the thick freezing liquid invaded his lungs, pooling up in every open recess of his body.  Blood clouded the clear water, and soon Logan was staring through a misted blanket of crimson.  The thick fingers gripped violently around his neck, squeezing every last inch of breath from his straining lungs.  He gargled, producing tiny bubbles from an open mouth.  Two eyes rolled back in his head, and after a couple of seconds, he seemed to stop moving.

Sabretooth held on like his life depended on it, and wouldn't let up until he could see every last air bubble spread out on the surface.  Instinctively, he started to release his hairy fingers, but suddenly thought to ensure death.  Logan took the quick chance to fling his disregarded limb up between Sabretooth's open legs, landing a blow that not even his opponent could stomach.  Sabretooth grimaced, and let up on his tight grip, but Logan had the opportunity to spring another volley of attacks.  He threw himself up through the water and breathed in mouthfuls of crisp fresh air as Sabretooth splashed painfully into the pond.  Gasping, Logan then launched his free claws into the downed man's torso, rolling over him and onto the grass.  Still embedded in Sabretooth's bloody chest, the X-Man used his impetus to drag the opponent off the forest floor and into the air.  At the critical moment, Logan withdrew his six weapons, and sent Sabretooth flailing over the high cliff top.  Nothing but the empty tumble of loose pebbles resonated over the area as Logan watched him fall.  

Deciding not to hang about, he ran off toward lights in the valley below, trying to stay free from trouble.

                                                *        *        *

The former students from Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters were being used as tools of war once again.  Spaskyich ordered the infiltration of a SHIELD outpost located on the southern most tip of Finland, south of where the Weapon X Installation had taken root.  Although none of the students knew it, they were travelling to a small town just outside Hanko, and their orders as Dr Kryles conveyed them, were to eliminate the remaining scientists that formed Dr Essex's Salekhard genetic research division.  After Jean shot Essex, his team abandoned their location in the West Siberian Plains but were picked up by a monitoring SHIELD squad, who then sent them back to Finland for quick interrogation and debriefing.  Spaskyich's own personal agenda toward genetic research and implementation brought on the assignment, and without the knowledge of his superiors, he hoped to kill off the other scientists without Captain Fury finding out.  

Spaskyich couldn't send all the new recruits, as specific cases had arisen, such as Logan's quick and unmonitored escape, but Tessa, Piotr and Kitty were to perform the small feat of espionage.  Doctor Kryles took over control of the operation, and outfitted them with certain equipment and materials to complete the job.  They were reluctant at first, but a slow aversion to mutiny had developed specifically for such attitudes to work, and now they were forced to do his bidding.  Landing just beyond the town's limits, all three were instructed to enter through a small ventilation system that started in a locked warehouse on the edge of town.  Kitty was allowed to use her unique abilities for the first time in a while, and managed to phase inside the building to unlock it.  No resistance was met while they were at the warehouse, so they proceeded to enter through the giant fan housings at the back of the building.  Whirring blades blocked their path, but Kryles instructed the use of a small explosive to dispatch the mechanisms.  The three young students slipped down through the long tunnel and came to several small openings at the base of the approach.  

After Kryles explained which tunnel to take, they moved down in single file, crawling for five minutes or so until a relatively large junction was reached.  Again, their instructor indicated for them to reach the control centre, and then turn down into the detention block.  The space inside was extremely disconcerting in some places, but they learned to overcome the difficulty of claustrophobia.  Infiltrating the detention block vents had been a lot tougher than Kryles or even Spaskyich had estimated, largely due to the fact that every exit led out to above the hallway, and not the individual cells.  The situation was worsened tenfold when Tessa attempted to set up the explosive gas canisters issued to them by the available air vents, which happened to be guarded with tripwires.  She couldn't have known that at the time, but alarms lit up the control centre's computers for every guard to see.  The students themselves weren't even aware of their mistake until Kryles pulled them out of the vent system.  

Passing the building in the centre of town, Tessa, Piotr and Kitty knew it had gone haywire when several people in strikingly similar military-looking uniform ran in and out like rabid dogs on too much caffeine.  They were never stopped or confronted, since the SHIELD soldiers should not have been in the town to begin with, but a certain commotion went up inside the building as the gas canisters went off harmlessly.  The three were monitored leaving, and every piece of available information on them was quickly relayed to the screen on Nick Fury's computer.  Upon confirmation of their details, Fury made several telephone calls, and got his act together.

It would take several hours for Hawk Spaskyich to realise his mistake, and even then it would be much too late.  His zealous nature in the pursuit of bigotry and prejudice among the people of the world had not only established him, but also brought about his downfall.  

                                                *        *        *        

Onboard the X-Men's Blackbird, Betsy sat in the back communicating with Kurt through her telepathy.  He was still struggling to converse in English, but she could understand him fluently through his mind.  Even though the shock of this new position disturbed her on every level, it had to be better than what she had left behind.  That much both new mutants were sure of.

Warren sat in the Pilot's seat, handling the jet with ease as it glided smoothly through the atmosphere.  Flying at just above two thousand feet, the jet could easily outrun the fastest commercial airliner, but lacked the manoeuvrability to compete with military jet engines, which could combat the Blackbird with infuriating simplicity.  His eyes were just about the most effective and suited for piloting the jet, seeing as he had the vision of an eagle.  He was however, rather jumpy sometimes, and Charles was not greatly in favour of him flying through bad weather or sticky situations.  Whatever view on his capabilities though, Warren was in the lead seat because Charles, in the co-pilot's position, was being contacted through SHIELD's specialised signal.  A mutually beneficial relationship had been set up between Xavier's School and the organisation, just because of Xavier's take on world affairs, so their communication was already more than on a first-time basis.  

Charles sat agitatedly in his chair, prodding at the com controls with his fingers.  Their altitude and location were not part of the best radio conditions known to man, but Charles managed to enhance the signal somewhat, listening to it through the jet's loudspeakers.  Crackling noise issued through the pressurised cabin, and all four people perked up as Fury's voice faded in.  'Signal One to CX Blackbird, can you hear us?'  The voice announced.  An image on the dashboard in front of Charles flicked on, and a man's face, lined from years of responsibility appeared.  He wore a pair of minimalist dark glasses, presumably to cover the appearance of only one working eye, and his cigarette smoke clouded the screen for a moment.

Charles spoke up enthusiastically.  'We read you at SHIELD headquarters, what do you have to say, Fury?'

'Hey there, Charley old boy, how's everything going with you?'  The image cracked a smile at him, stubbing the cigarette out.

'I'm in a bad state right now – half my school's been kidnapped and I've spent the last week trying to find them!  Even with my telepathy and this jet, I still haven't been able to pick up on _anything.  At the moment, we flying over Poland – can you help us?'  He begged, wishing he could speak to the important man in person._

'That's why I've called, Xavier.  Just over an hour ago, we received some disturbing news from a small building of ours in the southern most part of Finland – three young'uns came into town and broke into a warehouse of ours.  They proceeded to gas our detention block through the ventilation shafts; now I don't really know what's going on, but this has the subtle markings of some sly high-class operation.  What light can you shed on it?  You lost a guy and two girls recently?'  Fury responded, raising an eyebrow.

'Yes, plus many more – four women and five men of varying ages in total, plus the school itself has been partly demolished.'  

'Trust me, we already know; but listen, one of the girls has been identified as Katherine Pryde from Anaheim in California, whereas the other girl is one of yours, I know: Tessa Niles.  The fella we picked up on was some Russian guy from a part of Moscow.  I've tracked them back to a small unauthorised Installation west of Lisalmi, near many of the lakes in the centre of Finland.  I'll send you the approximate co-ordinates…  I think you may have heard of it before – the Wolverine bears the markings of it.'  Fury continued, lighting another smoke.

Charles shook his head ruefully.  'It's because they found where he was staying, wasn't it?  Somehow, those bastards found out.  Who's in charge of Weapon X at the moment?'  He enquired, hoping to get a swift answer.

'Hawk Spaskyich – who also had his hand in the Sentinel Contingency, wiped out just over a fortnight ago.  Charles,' he called 'not only has the man gone over my head to bury himself like a tick in the skin once more, but he's taken a lot of SHIELD funding and resources with him.  This latest assault, for particular reasons I can't tell you, is due to his unending vendetta against mutantkind.  The man's a sadist, and I'm personally heading up my elite combat force to dismiss the operation entirely.  Weapon X, Charley, is ending.'


	7. all in the family

Writer: Rowland Wells

_Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters.  _

Alternate 

X-Men 

#12

"all in the family"

It fell to Doctor Kyle Kryles to deliver the news to Commander Spaskyich in person.  He was not happy about it, and would have preferred one of the officers to convey the message, but his position held responsibilities and now it seemed like they were being called in to play.  His news was not of a high-quality nature, in fact, it was relatively alarming because it described the long wave frequencies being picked up on by the agents in the underground Installation.  The people monitoring the signals relayed the information to their superior, who in turn told Kryles to deliver the message.  Weapon X, it appeared, was suspect to a rather unexpected visit from the high-end operatives in SHIELD.  Although the main arm of the organisation was discrete to the point of being anal about their transmission secrecy, Weapon X was better equipped than Captain Fury assumed, so the details of the Installation's visit were caught in mid-air.  Kryles held in his hand a sheet of paper with sensitive material printed on it.  The Commander would not take kindly to such an intrusion of his privacy.  

The Doctor knocked rapidly on the door, and was told to come inside.  'Sit down, man.'  Hawk said straightforwardly.  Kryles gave the piece of folded paper to him, his hand shaking in the process.  'What's the matter?'  The Commander asked.  There was a pause between the two as Kryles stared down at his feet.  'What the hell's the matter, Kyle?'

Spaskyich glanced at his inferior, then to the sheet.  His eyes glazed over the black ink words, and then he got up and switched off the music softly coming out of two wooden speakers.  Instead of exploding with a fiery temper, Hawk took a seat next to Kryles, and fingered the paper, fidgeting.  'Fury thinks he can spring a force in here without our consent, he's got another damn thing coming.'  He said, chewing his lip anxiously.  'It says here he's got another twenty minutes or so to arrive – and I'm betting he won't use the front door…'  He sighed, attempting to suppress the rising anger.  Kryles shuffled uncomfortably.  'You screw up in Hanko?  Did ya?  And you wouldn't tell me, Kyle?  Shit!'  He yelled, smacking the Doctor upside the head.  'Twenty minutes!  How the hell do you think we can organise the base in twenty goddamn minutes, Doctor?'

'I've no idea sir…'

'It's 'cos you got no idea that we're about to get taken from behind!  Get over to the cellblock, move all the altered mutants into Medical and keep them locked up – sedate them if you have to!'  Spaskyich whirled around and threw open his office door, running to the top of the balcony walkway that overlooked his control room.  'If you run into any officers on the way, make sure they know what they're doing – I'm going to call each on the coms.  If they haven't a clue, make sure they call me!'  

Kryles stood still, watching the room as it sprung into life, switching from simply analysing the threat to engaging it.  Men in black ran to and fro across the room, and hundreds of screens flickered into life.  The main display screen at the head of the control room came on and the Commander's face appeared.  'This is Spaskyich – we have a priority one alert – the base is soon to be compromised, and I need everyone who isn't dead, armed and awake.  I want two squads of five at every available entrance, plus twenty men in all guarding the central sparring room.  Enforce discipline on any prisoners and get all official mutant agents up to the dormitories.  Guard the armoury and hanger bays and unless I say otherwise, identify any threats on site and eliminate as necessary.  You have ten minutes.  Over.'

Upon his instructions, the mass of agents in black subtly moved and operated as a fluid machine, each part complementing and working the other.  The control room burst into life, and people set about following his orders.  Guns loaded, agents paced down corridors and all the while Spaskyich surveyed his enterprise with powerful presence.  Dr Kryles marvelled at the functionality of it all, the way it evenly ran.  He made off for medical down the central corridor, and went to see his mutant subjects.

                                                *        *        *

Below was a sea of white, perfectly covering the green forest underneath in the early hours of the morning.  Although the sun wasn't yet over the horizon, its predawn glow issued into the breathless air, the clear dew that dripped over snow clad peaks glistening.  The perfect morning was interrupted only by the sudden boom of the Blackbird making its way toward the co-ordinates Fury had given.  The jet was nearly indistinguishable from the light blue sky peeking through the clouds, but it managed to stay concealed until dipping low enough to risk exposure.  The underground installation would surely detect its presence instantly, but the four mutants on board were willing to take that gamble.  Charles guided Warren's tired hands until they approached the miniature clearing of trees from out of which a small metal housing poked, doused in the blanket of fair snow.  The clearing was so slight, that Charles had to confirm its existence by detecting the people just below the surface.  The jet hovered for a brief moment, allowing for their procedure to act out, and then whisked away to find another clearing to land.  

                                                *        *        *

Simultaneously at the other entrances to the base, SHIELD soldiers were accumulating outside, scanning the ground and openings for explosives, sensors and security devices.  They stood several feet away, donned in a high-tech military gear.  Each soldier held onto a rather large but light semi-automatic, infra-red goggles and a Kevlar vest for body protection.  They huddled, without making a sound while engineers worked on the doors.  After several seconds at each entrance on top of the installation, every team of soldiers outside blew open the doors and cut through under activated smoke grenades and muted gunfire.  They tossed in several flash-bang grenades, piercing the ears of the agents guarding each door.  As the smoke filtered further into the small passages, more and more soldier's forced their way in.  Specifically when the first shot was fired from the surprised agents, a lethal skirmish ensued.  The soldiers took up points in every passage, forcing the agents back toward the central rooms and corridor.  Bodies fell in the spitting glow of gunfire light, and screams echoed down the installation as men were torn apart.  The men guarding the main rooms along the central corridor fell back into their areas, sealing the doors shut and calling for outside assistance in combating the more than evenly matched threats.  

The hangar was the first room to be entirely compromised.  Spaskyich hadn't considered it a main entrance as the bay doors opened on the side of a steep cliff, but his set of guards was completely overrun by the invading force.  The agents fell back beside the increasingly damaged helicopters and trucks, but soon the lines of silent gunfire consumed them too.  The hangar entrance was locked from the inside, so Captain Fury, who was with the final strike force ordered it to be blown open.  They met with heavy resistance from patrolling agents originally set to guard the control room and officer mess.  Forced back, Fury could still see that his power was overcoming the enemy in the side passages.  Eventually he would penetrate the inner corridor and pull through the fighting to confront Spaskyich in his hidden control room.  

                                                *        *        *

Hearing the gunfire from their own comrades, many of the soldiers guarding the sparring room dispersed to back up their forces preventing invasion of the main corridor.  Seven of the agents remained, extremely on edge.  They held their automatic rifles high, and stood straining from their posts to see the action that lit up the side passages.  Soldiers had come this far, but now they would have to deal with a much heavier resistance.

The seven agents staying at their post were utterly astonished when Kurt Wagner appeared in their midst from right out of nowhere.  A small flash lit up the top right hand corner of the room, followed by his materialisation before their very eyes.  Jumping straight out of their skin, the agents twisted around, and aimed their rifles at his catatonic body.  Kurt was paralysed with fear, because although Charles had convinced him to teleport into the building, Kurt could not control where he reappeared if he didn't have an idea of what the location looked like.  He thanked God that he had at least landed on an outcrop at the top of the room, but his predicament was quite serious.  'Mein Gott!'  He screamed, as the flaring lights of the firing muzzles burned brightly.  His reactions kicked in suddenly, and he willed himself between the groups of people, vanishing in a dust only to appear between them.  Coming instantly from one place to the next, Kurt lashed out his long dark tail, and whipped it across the nearest agent's chest.  The man spun backwards, while Kurt teleported over to the other side of the group.  The agents lurched for where he was, but he appeared in mid-air behind another, and kicked him across the length of the sparring room.  The clattering rifle spun onto the metal floor spraying several bullets into the air.  

Still falling through the air, Kurt was suddenly on top of the next man in black, and let his dropping weight crush the man below him.  In a swift motion, the German mutant propelled himself across the gap and into the chest of another agent.  As that man careered backwards with the mutant's weight and momentum, Kurt teleported again, and appeared mid-air around another.  Holding onto the man's head, Kurt emerged with him high in the air and spun around, falling, until the man was sent flying into a wall.  The remaining two agents reloaded, shooting bullets at his disappearing form constantly.  Instantly he vaporised and was then between the both of them again, flicking two feet against the back of one man who shot into the door of a vacant sparring room, and then throwing himself against the other who went clear through the wooden boarded-up hole Logan had created.  Wood splintered everywhere in a terrific crash, and Kurt managed to teleport on impact and reappear in the middle of the room again.  His yellow eyes surveyed the seven unconscious men, and he barked into the microphone taped to the clothes on his chest.  'Jetzt.'  He said, panting heavily through the tiny wire frame covering the receiver.  

After several seconds, there was a heavy ripping sound as Warren tugged away the last remnants of wood from the small opening.  He clambered through, followed by Betsy.  'Jesus, you took out all these people by yourself?'  She asked, glancing to Warren uneasily.

Kurt tilted his head, trying to process the question, and then nodded, deciding to indulge them both.  Warren picked up a discarded rifle and the three cautiously made for the sparring room entrance where the cracking spit of gunfire resonated throughout the underground building.  'Stay close, you two…'  Warren said, quite unnecessarily.  

                                                *        *        *

Within the cellblock, the prisoners awoke to the crack-sound of firing rifles.  Guards on position around the secured room became flustered in the tumult and scrambled to the aid of their friends.  Several men stayed at the entrance, holding the fort as many of the agents thundered down the main corridor.  The mutants peered from out of the green barred mesh shouting in surprise at the broken silence.  Lights flicked on, illuminating the area with brilliant incandescence.  Scott, still staying in Jean's cell walked to the bars, and stared out from his confinement.  'What the hell's going on out there?'  Jean asked, stirring underneath her flimsy bed blanket.  Scott adjusted his glasses, shaking off the sleep from his body.  'I think they're in trouble…'  He replied.  They all heard shots echoing from down the hall, and finally perked up, extremely aware of the situation.  Hank stood stock still at his cell entrance, Bobby behind him, wary of the dangerous noise.  'You don't think they're here to kill us, do you?'  Bobby said, his voice quivering.

'Who knows…'  Hank responded.  His voice was a lot lower and gruffer due to his altered bodily structure, but he still retained the same intelligence and memory that he had before.  'I don't want to know any more!'  He shouted, slapping the side wall violently.

                                                *        *        *

The SHIELD soldiers advanced up through the side passage between the barracks and agent dormitories.  The encountered little fighting while creeping through their entrance, but as soon as the main corridor was breached, agents flooded out from both the connecting rooms, cutting off the soldier's stealthy progression.  Managing to tip over lockers, cabinets and other supply boxes, Fury's men holed themselves in the side passage, lying behind the cover.  Bigger, more covert rifles were used to pinpoint individual agents firing on them, taking each down in a spectacular display of showering blood.  The soldiers put grenades into the foray, making a rather violent and bloody space for them to advance into.  Screams travelled down the corridor, finally coming to the ears of Dr Kryles and his small escort going toward medical.  The Doctor made for them to go into the primary barracks, and cut over the melee ensuing below.  As they bypassed the fight with little action on their part, Kryles was able to gain access to medical.  His plan to hold the altered mutants there was clearly scrapped, so they concentrated on taking up position in the small medical offices.  Amid the hustling movement and flashing of guns and ammo, the Doctor could safely diagnose himself as being very afraid.  He grabbed for a pistol, and hoped to god that Spaskyich would pull through.  

                                                *        *        *

From his more securely defended ground, Captain Fury kept his men at a distance from the retaking force of agents in front of them.  The hangar bay doors had been taken apart, and hiding behind the wreckage of a truck and several columns supporting the ceiling, the SHIELD soldiers fought back with rocket propelled grenades and heavy rifles.  The combat was most devastating among this end of the central corridor, but Fury was positive it would only take a little more time.  He signalled for a radio man to approach, and put a message through to Xavier, flying over the forest tree tops above them.  'Keep near, Charles!'  He shouted above the explosions.  'We're going to penetrate the control room and disengage the discipline chips on your guys – there's heavy fighting here!'  A stray line of bullets cut him off as both Captain and radiomen ducked for cover.

Charles responded, but through the noise, it wasn't very clear.

Fury indicated to his men once more, and they lurched out from cover, pinning down the circled agents who had come to far into the hangar.  Sensing their near lethal predicament, the agents surrendered their weapons, and were subsequently lined against the far wall.  The Captain advanced his invading force further into the main corridor.  Explosives were set, and more section doors were blown open to gain access.  

                                                *        *        *

Standing behind his large computer panel on the control room's balcony platform, Hawk Spaskyich taped at different buttons, bringing up camera views and sensor displays on the main screen.  Few technicians operated the consoles on the floor below, and the rest of the agents took cover among the equipment.  They aimed at the main door ahead, certain of its penetration in a matter of seconds.  Spaskyich screamed at his men amongst the shouting, sweating heave of frightened people.  He indicated to the computers, and the people operating them, and then turned his attention to the private console he operated.  

Almost immediately after the sizzling sparks of an engineer's torch cut through the main doors to the control room, they blew clear open, shooting across the room to decapitate any poor souls directly in their path.  A haze of thick smoke wafted into the area, disabling sight completely as the soldiers moved in.  Through the fumes, Spaskyich could see the blazing glow of gunfire lighting up the vapours.  He ducked instinctively, dodging random shots that sprayed across the ceiling.  Screams and cries went up, and his agents fell back, dying amid the terrible crossfire.  

Fury advanced his force behind the pillars and console stations on the control room floor, communicating continually with his force.  The soldiers overcame many of the agents on first contact, but Spaskyich's defending men fled up the stairs and behind the main floor to the compartments for supplies.  There was no way out of the room once invasion began, and as the agents fought back in stark terror, they were gunned down mercilessly.  Spaskyich took hold of a dropped rifle and reloaded, hoping to cut through the melee.  He leaned over the console and shot of several rounds into the clearing smoke.  Soldiers dispersed and followed the running agents to the balcony upstairs.  Fury was behind them, wary of the risk, but determined to end the operation in swift success.  Spaskyich took out one man ahead of the Captain, not even realising his presence there.  The agents ran into the offices in a flurry of panicking, but soldiers pursued and finally disarmed them.  Several men surrounded Spaskyich's struggle, defending their superior.  Fury scrutinised the console and gestured to his men to take out the defence.  

In the slow-motion haze of a life-threatening fight, Spaskyich took a chance to smash the glass housing of the most delicate button in the installation.  Bullets flew past his face, bringing down one of the black-suited agents defending him.  Spaskyich jumped, screaming, and threw his rough hand down to the large red button.  His face cracked into a demonic leer in the action and he yelled victoriously.  In the split-second between thought and execution, Fury himself leapt through the group of advancing soldiers and shot off at Hawk's form.  The bullets embedded themselves in his swinging arm, and Spaskyich spun around to catch sight of his attacker.  His other arm, holding the weight of the large rifle tipped back, and his weight was thrown over the balcony bars.  Fury killed the rest of the agents guarding the position, and then ran to the console.  His eyes flicked over the writing just above the button: "Use in case of emergency" it read "terminate cellblock subjects".  Using all his strength, he tugged up against the button, hoping that Spaskyich hadn't the time to depress it.  The red knob tore off in his hand, and he called the engineer over.  Spitting cracks of gunfire echoed out in the main corridor, but for the most part, the control room was quiet once more.  

'Disconnect every wire leading into that button.'  Fury ordered.  He then glanced over the side of the balcony, expecting to see Hawk's unconscious body.  What met his gaze was an empty space where the commander should have been.  Fury vocalised his rage, and broke the rail with his hands.  'Get moving!'  He yelled to the soldiers.

                                                *        *        *

Following on foot as Warren sped in front of them with his mighty white wings, Betsy and Kurt slowed to let him scout ahead.  She wasn't prepared for the reality of their situation, but it wasn't going to deter her from playing an important part.  * What now? *  She asked Kurt, communicating with him telepathically.  

*No idea, but we have to run into your friends at sometime or another. *  He replied.  The two stopped outside a small door on their side passage, sticking close to the walls.  The flickering lights had been going completely insane after Fury's team partially disabled power to the installation.  The door to medical beside them winged open, and before Betsy could scream the agents inside raised their guns to the two mutants.  Kurt threw his arms protectively around her shaking body, and as the bullets travelled through the remaining dust, they reappeared high up in the air of the cellblock area.  Both yelling in utter astonishment, they plummeted at hurtling speed toward the cold floor below.  Kurt let go of her body as they transported, but managed to teleport himself closer to the ground, landing safely.  As Betsy dropped, she concentrated intensely, erecting a telekinetic bubble around herself.  The shield of psychic energy lowered peacefully to the floor, and her descent inside slowed until she could release her mind.  Touching the floor, she grinned to Warren as he flew in through the central corridor.  

'Look out!'  He managed to gasp as the stationed guards fired off at the intruders.  A cheering uproar thundered through the cellblock as the prisoners saw the new arrivals.  Betsy threw up another bubble around herself, while Kurt teleported behind one of the guards, and Warren swept into the other from on high.  The bullets thudded harmlessly against the girl's shield, and the three free mutants gained the great approval of the prisoners.

Standing so close to the laser bars inside his cell, Scott called to the others outside.  'Warren – get us out of here!'  The other students assembled in their compartments, awaiting their freedom.  Jean came next to Scott, and wrapped her hand around his defiantly.  The grins appearing on the side of everyone's faces lit up the dreary, dank atmosphere of the sterile area.  Warren walked over to the large reflective panel at the end of the passage.  Flipping the lever ecstatically, he watched as the green bars glowed brightly, and then dissipated into nothingness.  Although the prisoners were still aware of the gunfire coming from down the main corridor, they tumbled out of the cells into the passage, surrounding the three intruders with overjoyed enthusiasm.  After much celebrating, Warren managed to cajole the others toward the cellblock entrance; they started cheering abruptly in the cold air of the large room.  He held onto Kurt and Betsy, ensuring they weren't taken in the sway of rushing prisoners who had no association with Xavier's students.  

Bobby stood on the outside of the group, suddenly aware of Hank's disappearance.  Looking around for him in a panic, the teenager ran to the entrance and recognised from his awkward gait, Hank running off into the distance with several of the other mutants.  Bobby yelled for him to come back, but Hank was determined to mete out punishment for his experience.         

                                                *        *        *

The collection of other mutants stormed down the central corridor completely oblivious of the danger just a few doors away.  It seemed to the Fury's soldiers that they were overcoming the enemy's forces, but there was still heavy fighting in the side passages and barracks.  The mutants evaded any fighting by coming straight to medical.  They were seeking out the Doctor and his agents, sure that he could be found cowering in his labs.  The two entrances to the room were boxed in, and the mutants threw themselves in under a stream of gunfire.  

Several of them were blown apart on entry, their insurmountable rage so powerful that their lives suffered the loss of judgment.  Kryle's men floundered amongst the sudden use of the mutant's powers, not expecting them to show through for the discipline chip.  Several agents shot through the glass windows, clattering onto tables and medical equipment.  Hank followed through the mass of injured bodies.  His primal instinct manifested through the altered state, and he roared deep from his large lungs.  The agents scattered as he bounded onto a gurney in the centre of the operating theatre.  He grasped one man in his heavy hands, and propelled him across the length of the room, whilst striking another clean across the jaw.  Fire broke out among the equipment and the several other Doctors fled for the entrances.  Stopped in their tracks by several more mutants, they were mercilessly slaughtered where they stood.  Agents still holding weapons tried to rotate around the room, firing on Hank's wrathful form in the centre, but the dexterous mutant danced between them, cracking bones, and bruising flesh.  The last agent to remain was able to fire off his sidearm effectively, hitting Hank in the chest and arm.  He screamed in pain, his face contorting to an animal scowl.  Swinging his mighty arm, Hank batted the last agent against the front of the gurney, almost tearing him in two.  

Having dispatched the men, Hank leapt like a caged beast through the operating theatre doors and into the office.  Dr Kryles swung a pistol up to level with Hank's face, but the altered mutant caught the clenching hand in his big paw.  Kryles howled in agony as his wrist and finger bones were crushed in the vice grip.  'You're killing me!'  He coughed out, weakly.  Hank roared spittle and blood into his pained open mouth, and raised his other wounded arm to crush the human's crippled shoulder.  'You'll pay in hell for this!'  He growled, tearing the man's bones from their sockets.  In the distance, the gunfire reduced to sparks and crackles as the soldiers forced their way through the barracks and armoury.

Grabbing for the nearest instrument on the discarded tray beside the good Doctor, Hank thrust a scalpel across Kryles's ribs, finally letting it reside deep in the collarbone.  Kyle shook in his trembling body, falling back into his Doctor's chair.  Satisfied with his complete demise, Hank gripped the man's jaw between thumb and forefinger, and morbidly flicked backwards, finally receiving his closure from the disgusting creature.  His vacant skull looped forward onto his chest, and Hank spun around to see Bobby staring slack-jawed behind him.  'My god…'  He breathed in shock.

Without saying a word, the hunched man hopped past and out the door.

                                                *        *        *

Remy led the both of them through the network of corridors, sure of his destination.  Even though he didn't know that the chips had been disabled, the Cajun was aiming for the removal mechanism located in the Robot Maintenance offices.  Fighting had been pushed back solely to the armoury, where the agents had quite a supply of ammunition and cover.  Fury was commanding his soldiers through to the agent dormitories, but much of his strike team was forcing its way into the armoury entrance.  

Creeping through the destruction and debris, he led Rogue into the abandoned, blown-out maintenance room.  Several guard bots and turrets had been disabled, leaving the area defenceless.  'What happens if we're caught?'  She whispered to him, staying in the shadows made by smashed lights.  'We ain't gonna be caught, chere – Remy's got this whole thing figured out…'  His voice trailed off while they forced their way through the office main door.  Equipment was stacked in varying rushed arrays, weapons left for dead among the wreckage of burnt file paper and overturned supply boxes.  Coming to a busted door, Remy left the girl outside to step over the butchered body and grab the device he held.  A small cube shaped piece of metal was applied to the chip on the back of Rogue's neck.  Remy gave it a small tug, and the thin plate of metal that had traumatised every prisoner in the installation for months on end floated to the ground.  She groped at the space, and withdrew her fingers at the first touch of blood.  The electrode had been taken out and with it, some small flakes of flesh, but nothing substantial.  She performed the same operation on him, and then stamped on the chip as it fell.  'Now what?'  

'Maintenant, cherie, nous laissons – _we make a break fo' it!'  He took her by the arm, and they stealthily made for the dilapidated hangar bay.  _

                                                *        *        *

The train of Xavier's students slowed to a stop as Scott and Jean saw Remy sliding quickly down the main corridor.  He made terrific speed running from the dangers of the installation, but the two leading managed to catch the chip remover as he left it for them.  'What's this?'  Jean asked, fingering the small cube in the palm of her hand.  Tessa took it, and turned the redhead about.  'This is the same thing used to break the collar off when Kryles first brought us here.  Keep still a second…'  She said, placing it at the neck.  'Do you think Spaskyich is dead?'  Jean asked cautiously, hoping it was the truth.  

'I believe he's more resourceful than we estimate him to be, Jean, and I can bet he's got out somehow.'  Scott replied, sifting through the wreckage on his hands and knees.  Hank stepped forward, parting his blue fur for Tessa to relieve his bondage.  'The same can not be said for Dr Kryles though.'  He exclaimed, speaking dejectedly.  'Whatever happens to the big worm, his maggot can't touch another damn person.'  The metal plate wafted to the floor, and Hank trampled it under his large foot.  Ororo approached him, stroking his arm tentatively.  'You alright?'  She asked, expecting the worst.

He brushed her off, and strode ahead of the group.

'Well how do we get out of this hole in the ground?'  Ororo shouted angrily at no-one in particular.  'Don't know about you people, but I'm quite ready to leave; and where the bloody hell is Logan for chrissakes, we haven't seen him in ages!'  

'They're still fighting in the tunnels, and we don't even know who Spaskyich's men are attacking.'  Kitty stated amid the motionless group.

'The soldiers are from SHIELD, the original agency from which Weapon X branched off.'  Warren said.  'We have to get topside if there's any chance of leaving.  Charles has landed the blackbird somewhere near the tip of the installation, unfortunately,' he sighed frustrated 'we can't hear him because we're too far underground.'

'Then what happens?  We run into agents and get killed, or we stay down here and wait for the damn roof to collapse.'  Jean said, scratching her short hair.  

'No, we can get Kurt here to teleport into the Blackbird and talk to Charles.'  Warren replied, a smile finally starting to appear on his face.

'Great!  Can you take me with you?'  Scott asked, talking to the German.  Betsy interjected.  'He can't speak English.'  

'You do though, pretty well – who are you?'  Scott asked, unconsciously pointing to her.  

'I'm Elisabeth, but you lot can call me Betsy.  I met Warren in London.'  She said.

'How are we supposed to communicate with him though if he can't speak English?'  Scott wondered.

'He's learning to, but for the meantime, we can use the telepaths among us to understand him.'  Warren responded.  

From down the halls a huge explosion resonated through the building, and as Scott grabbed for Kurt's arm and said: 'Now!'  They both vanished.

The other students ducked and scattered for cover as the crystal crack of gunfire burst into the main corridor once again.  Screams and calls echoed around, and the lights above them suddenly burst in a combined shatter of glass.  There was a thundering clatter of footsteps before a great number of the soldiers flooded down the main corridor, yelling all the way.  The students backed off, and hid amidst the wreckage and side passages until the scrambling people vanished.  

Ducking suddenly at the skittering burst of fire, Jean hit the floor, and shouted to Tessa.  'Where did Scott go?'

The ensuing noise was much too loud for any of them to communicate over, so they got up, and made to run. 

                                                *        *        *

Materialising in the centre of the armoury, Kurt screamed, letting go of Scott's struggling body.  'What the hell was that?'  He shouted, but quickly ignored the surprise after registering his surroundings.  Solid metal counters, piled high with military equipment, weapons and all kinds of ammo were burning intensely with bright orange flames.  The high ceiling above had not yet filled with smoke and suffocating fumes, but thick black exhaust wafted from barrels and boxes lighting up from the blaze.  'I thought you said we were going to the Blackbird?'  Scott shouted over the sizzling crackled of burning rubble.  Kurt could only shake his head in despair.  He tried to explain that the explosion had put off his concentration, but the dumb American wouldn't comprehend.  Before he could shrug, several agents leapt through the falling devastation and reached for salvageable material and weapons.  On an incentive, they squeezed off several shots before Kurt threw himself out of the way, and Scott ducked.  Flame licked up around the room as the bullets were consumed in orange flares.  Rising from the fuming debris, Scott tipped his ruby glasses off the bridge of his nose and let loose a blast that had been a long time coming.  It tore through the weakened walls, thrashing against the foolish agents.  The bellowed in harmony and were put straight into a bank of ammo packages.  

Kurt took a quick look at the leaking barrels, observing the pierced containers were leaking onto the burning floor.  'Wir müssen gehen!'  He howled, grabbing for the other man.  As the flashpoint of the fuel was reached, a spark went off, and the trail of liquid lit up beautifully.  Kurt teleported again, making his exodus with Scott.  There was a flash before anything else, and then the armoury resounded with a terrific boom.  The resulting explosion took the ceiling off, and the steel and wood blew through the earth and trees topside.  A fantastic orange back draught flowed out of the armoury entrance, colliding with the main corridor wall opposite.  It warped and twisted in the fiery furnace, melting away fixtures and reinforced material.  As the students cowered from the terrific display, the explosive pressure expanded the glow throughout, and brightened up the corridor.  Jean knew even before the power of the explosion spread, that the pressure could only escape through the connecting passages.  Preparing herself for the onslaught, she focussed her mind on the one protecting barrier.  

The shield went up in front of the group of students as the explosion dogged itself down the corridor, thundering at enormous speed.  It consumed the fire and smoke issuing from the blaze within, pulling everything in its path into a heated embrace.  'Hold on!'  She yelled, turning back to her fellows.  Bobby surrounded the walls just ahead of them with crystal white ice, hoping to slow the uncontrollable heat, but receded as Betsy and then Tessa went up to assist Jean's defence.  Knowing the result, the other five students backed away from the impending confrontation and ran at speed toward the gaping hole in the sparring room.  Escape, now, was the only option.  

As the lashing orange flames battered heavily against the shield from the entire focussed force of the channelled explosion, all three women were pushed back, slipping and sliding from the backlash.  It bottomed loudly, and they were tossed to the floor, with little psychic energy to smother the scattered flames dancing up beside them.  'Come on…'  Jean struggled to her feet and helped the other two up.  'This will only incite more fighting, and I doubt both sides are up for it.'  They bounded after the running group, hoping to reach the outside before more gunfire came through.  

                                                *        *        *

Charles was logged onto the several computers aboard the Blackbird, monitoring the outsides of the craft when a sudden flash lit up the cockpit from behind.  Instantly his powerful mind reached out, detecting the presence of Kurt and Scott's sudden entry.  The younger student laughed ecstatically, bouncing over to his master.  He hugged the older man's back joyously, revelling in his long-awaited freedom.  Charles turned, letting go and he beam a smile at the two.  'Good to see you, my boy!  Are you alright?'  

Scott nodded his head, still elated.  'Damn it's a fine sight this thing!'  He slapped the metal interior of the craft, grinning.  'I've waited too long for this moment – when I could finally say I'm free from their clutches.'  He sighed loudly, and sat back in the co-pilots seat.  Kurt brushed the dust and dirt off his ragged clothes and stood behind the Professor.  "I got him out safely, but there are others still inside."  He said in German.

'We have to land just outside the tip of the base to pick up the rest of the team.  Is everyone okay? I'm picking up mixed signals from you…'  Charles switched on the Blackbird's engines, and the craft started to ascend.  

Scott's face turned sour vaguely.  'We haven't seen Logan since yesterday; I've no idea what's happened to him, but Professor – Hank… the Doctors there did something to him.'

Charles looked away from the windscreen readouts, facing his young student intensely.  'What do you mean?'

'I mean that whatever medical procedures you and Jean used to repair his body after Croatia, had reacted with something that they did to him.  He's got the blue hair all over his body now, not just on his head.'

Xavier banked the vehicle to the right, flying low over the glistening treetops and over to the rising stack of thick smoke.  'Is is reversible?'  He asked.

'I really don't know, but his body has been altered too.  He's a lot more… beast-like.  Almost an animal, I suppose.'  Scott trailed off, as he peered out of the windscreen.

'Never mind about that now, we must see to it at home.  I'm setting the Blackbird down.  Is everyone else still with you?  Because if we are to leave before the entire installation blows up, then we have to do it quickly.'

The aircraft vibrated on top of the soft, tainted snow, shuddering with each tree branch it crippled on descent.  The ramp came down, and they waited.

                                                *        *        *

Hank assumed that the time must have been close to five in the morning, as the pink radiance in the clear sky above was preparing to dissipate for the sun to rise.  He was in the branches of a large tree just outside the front entrance of the installation, watching for the remaining band of agents to accumulate.  They hid behind various rock structures and trees, hoping to conceal their small number until the Commander could escape with them.  Hank gripped the leafy tree branches tightly, gritting his teeth in an effort not to spring onto the men beneath.  He had already taken Doctor Kryles out of the picture, but it was just a matter of time before his revenge could be absolute, and Spaskyich would pay for his inhumane crimes.  The forest outside had become completely silent after the explosion went off, and the only sounds he could hear were the rustling of leaves in the wind and the fresh crunch of crisp snow under trampling feet.  

The broken steel flooring creaked and snapped as the final party left the remains of the base and Spaskyich was greeted by several more men.  He stumbled out, a tourniquet tied round his wounded arm, and his army clothes stained a bloody red.  The gruff Texan motioned for his agents to proceed through the woodland, but his own progress was lacklustre, and Hank chose the opportunity to exert his wrath.  The Commander jumped out of his skin when the blue furred beast landed on the ground just in front of him.  He gawked at the fluid movement as Hank danced forward and swung a hefty blow clean across the Commander's chest.  Spaskyich tumbled into the snow bank behind him, crumpling into a mass.  Hank bore down on his terrified form, screaming for mercy, but the mutant was too far gone in his hatred to listen.  As he was about to apply the coup de grace to the poor wretch, soldiers leapt from their seclusion and tackled him.  Hank tussled with several of them, Fury emerging from the forest to order his restraint.  The soldiers held him back, and several guns pointed to the defeated Commander.  Spaskyich groaned under a pile of broken bones, watching wearily as his prisoners gathered around to witness his conquered state.  The agents were herded by the last of the SHIELD troops, and disarmed.  

'You've lost this round, Hawk.'  Fury said a disappointed look on his face.

'Ya can't make me apologise…'  He grumbled crawling until his back leant against the snow bank.  His eyes wandered over the scene, a tumult of bad thoughts clouding his brain.  Fury stood over him, clad in warming winter gear, with a long pistol in his hand.  His agents knelt with hands behind their heads and all around soldiers waited to incarcerate him.  Xavier's students had appeared at the side as well, furious and yet relieved at their captor's situation.  'You're all happy now!'  Spaskyich coughed out, a trail of blood dribbling down his chin.

'Yes we are.'  Jean shouted, among her fellows.  Hank was let go of by the soldiers and went back to join Ororo in their group.  

'Well mutants can burn in hell.'  He whispered spitefully, facing them.  

'Then we'll see you there.'  Hank barked back.  

The Commander shook his head tiredly, and stayed stuck on the floor.  

Above them the Blackbird hovered into view, lowering its ramp.  The craft balanced in the air, being bustled by air currents.  Deciding to leave the scene at last, Xavier's students ambled into the open jet, welcomed by familiar faces.

                                                *        *        *

Several days later, while Charles sat in the wreckage of the Mansion's basement, contracted builders working all around him, he sifted through the contents of the one working computer they had.  Files, files and more files; he wondered if there was any point in keeping the information stored in the machine, considering it had helped in no way finding or preparing for the Weapon X invasion and his students.  In some corner of his mind, Charles knew that it was better to utilise the data than not use it at all, but what had been accomplished, he asked himself.  Not a shred of evidence on the Weapon X programme had told him about their actions or techniques.  So Charles was debating what to do with it.  

Tessa stepped down the corridors, passing over burnt out plates of wall panels and other materials.  She observed the working men ferrying out rubbish and debris, while planning the resurrection.  Coming behind Charles, she spoke to him.  'Don't these people find it a bit suspect that we all live in a house where the basement resembles a military base?'  

'I've got them under control.'  He replied, tapping his temple with two fingers.  She grinned to him thankfully, and they smiled.  

After a pause, she stared out to the rest of the damaged area, and clicked sadly at the loss of the Cerebro computer.  'I'm glad you came looking for us.'  She said.

'Well I'm glad I found you; perhaps not how I remembered everyone exactly, but more or less.'  He chuckled.

'And what about Logan – do you think he's coming back any time soon?'

'Wherever he disappeared to, I'm sure that he's quite alright.  The man can take care of himself, it seems.'  Charles said, closing down the computer at last.

                                                *        *        *

Stumbling tiredly up the stairs of the small motel, Logan looked for the right room.  Finding it, he rapped on the door with bare knuckles, and leant against the frame.  His clothes were dirty and worn, his muscles ached from exertion, and skin around his neck was just starting to appear normal once more.  The maroon coloured door creaked open, and a young woman's head popped out, the white streak decorating the tip of a swaying bob of brunette hair.  'Hiya, girlie,' Logan slurred 'you got a place I could crash?'  

Rogue straightened and opened the door a little wider for him.  Remy looked over, and sighed annoyingly.


End file.
